


A Mark Given On Feathers

by miss_lead



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Assassins, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dishonored - Freeform, Dishonored: The Brigmore Witches, Dishonored: The Knife of Dunwall, Dog Fighting, Eventual Romance, Fixation, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Parent Daud (Dishonored), Possession, Prompt Fic, Romance, Shapeshifting, Whalers - Freeform, Witch - Freeform, Witchcraft, Witches, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 100,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_lead/pseuds/miss_lead
Summary: - “My mother warned me never to make an enemy of a witch.” An AU where Corvo is a witch (optionally marked by the Outsider) and Daud attempts to stay on his good side. -Daud has no information on Delilah to begin with.  But following rumours, nothing like a Witch to help figuring out the whereabouts and plans of another. If only it wasn't so difficult to win Corvo's favour.





	1. Never Make an Enemy Out of a Witch.

**Author's Note:**

> Four years ago I have been through the dishonoured_kinkmeme and stumbled upon a prompt that I had to fill in. I never got to finish, and I saw many errors through it, I have given up on such work. Sadly for it was fun and now I find in me the need to write it again. The prompt itself was:
> 
> “My mother warned me never to make an enemy of a witch.” An AU where Corvo is a witch (optionally marked by the Outsider) and Daud attempts to stay on his good side.
> 
> Here I will develop it anew. New tags as I write it, I’ll try to keep it light themed, but hopefully, still consistently Dishonoured-like. Daud and Corvo will present themselves to be challenges... But nothing to fear, way 'ay, up it rises.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment. I hopefully will continue it to the end it deserves.  
> Tags will be added through its progression.

" _Never make an enemy out of a witch."_

           The lessons his mother had taught him, many he had forgotten through the passage of time. Along her features and a few flavours, songs and colours his memories seemed to have been swallowed, her lessons, few he kept in his mind and heart, part of a far away story before he was a man; Before he had a voice, before he had hands. Before he was capable, before he wrote his fate, from a time he only suffered from the tides. Before he broke the waves, and weaved them at his will.

           This lesson however, remained, as he breathed in and out the same feeling she might have shared with patrons that ordered naught. Plead and order, different sides of the same act of requesting, itself a coin, a fee. Her clients had a fear he couldn't remember seeing, but her words seemed to deliver the awareness of its existence. 

           Along this lesson, he could recall in his mind the proofs of such things. Whispers, mainly of witchcraft; at times, between foul stenches of rotten mouths that alcohol didn't preserve, gnawing of broken teeth or putrid smiles. Torn and fragile nails, blackened by smoke, mud, blood,  _witchcraft_ , broken by fear. Such nails, broken, ripped off, either the nails or the fingers, the precision of such old memories was far from the best, but the reason why they were harmed was clear on his mind even if he wasn't sure if he was told so or he noted it himself.  _Unwanted touches._  

           It was maybe the only lesson he could remember from his mother, now on his most progressive age. And like an unspoken promise to himself, by all means he kept it in his mind, heeding to those words that he wasn't quite sure who muttered it first; People whom left her presence keeping their teeth or not, or perhaps his own eyes had crafted such motto like a child without fable books, where tales of childhood were replaced by the very true however unforgiving reports of people's misfortunes. A teaching from experience, from his mother. And if he didn't recall a few glimpses before his eyes and a few facts on the back of his mind, he might have believed the myths. 

           Despite old, those memories hadn't yet faded from the hems like ruined papers would with age. His mother hadn't been a witch, even if she carried herself so. Later in his life, he might have come to realise she wore those same rumours to her favour; truth remained that she was no witch, merely well versed on Pandyssian herbs and concoctions elaborated from its inhabitants, one she could count herself as one.

           And yet, such an intelligent motto was broken like matchsticks, through the hurried mention of a single name. A name that put him in a witch hunt, fuelled by the ghosts of his past and his regrets, whom wore the dark vests and dark eyes of a frightened Empress, and her frightened daughter. Had been so easy for him to follow it, revolve and mow that name against his molars, chewing it with grief. With the same ease, he choose to believe rumours gathered by his men.

           Months after the Empress' death, he had thrown himself into sorrow, grief and a witch hunt.  _Delilah_. Delilah whom rumours murmured about but no proof behind them. The only certainty seemed to be behind the words whom whispered behind them. From his line of work, he had learnt to heed to such street wisdom when it came to warn. Some verse of truth it had, wherein embellishments or fears that minds purposely or not weaved, to make such words heard - in times like those that followed, more and more difficult it became to be heard. But Daud heard, his men for a while watched, heard, and swords sharp rested within hilts for a moment; the dull ones, never stopped clashing at the training rooms. He didn't have to search afar for urchins, men and women needing a chance to work in whatever mean to earn their rations and the means to survive.

           So when research seemed to have failed him, and corpses seemed to flood the district, as well the sight of the ruin the knife caused, Daud once more choose to give heed to rumouring, passed through ale and whispers, blood and coins wherever he could hear. And predictably  enough, it was through barkeepers and muffles of servants he heard... A servant that knew a servant, that knew a servant that knew a servant, came with the hushed words he had no choice but to follow, a lead he would have preferred to not follow at all if he had another choice besides standing still.

           Dark at night, the Hounds Pit Pub stood silent but not completely disregarded. It wasn't crowded as it had been once, but wasn't desert like he thought at first. The District itself was Weeper's and gang domain, but the survivors went as far as the odds required to find a working pub, regardless of the dubious origin of the beverages there served, their price, or the faint taste of river brine or blood one would find at the first and last glasses of a still. Had been a while since he had transversed through this neighbourhood, and that night, a shopkeeper a little too posh had died over the coins he bet over a hound named Blackie. The name stood for the hound's coat, that from dark chestnut got fully black when bathed in blood. The coins traded there had the same colour when he swept them from underneath the shopkeeper's body.

           This night however, there was no clash of hounds; In times of plague, it was hard to come around the creatures, the Overseers held the market for those creatures, and the coin for acquiring them, only the zealots could spare. But not empty of the beasts, a reduced number remained. The posters said it so, and his vision confirmed, as he tranversed  his way to an alleyway empty of costumers, rats and weepers, pleasantly empty and swept not a while too long. It was rare to see those small things that confirmed that there was still life by the neighbourhood, even if only from the pub itself. Inside, patrons, barkeepers and servants walked by, a rare few tables taken, even fewer stools. Uncovered eyes squinted as they changed, the world came from mere lights through the walls to full colour once the door opened under his palm, in a long wail that could have been fixed, but it had not. He had no doubt that by now, it functioned no different from a bell. Creaking doors had their worth.

           He found his place through the hushed whispers and repetitive music to a stool, and he stared at the sticky wooden surface of the counter over which he rested his arms. Inside, the smell of the river was minimal, replaced by the sweetness of the ale that he debated, for a brief moment, if it was worth trying out. He would, if tension didn't tug at his body and a woman walked by.

            She wore a cap and along her small body and commoner's clothes, the combination seemed to make her blend in with the furniture, or the endless count of commoners like her that fell prey to the plague. She could pass unnoticed, but to him, she made herself known as she cleaned him a cup. 

           "Good evening sir. Is there anything I can get you?" The mouse looking woman asked, with the same suspicion Daud wore in his eyes, as he watched her move, bare handed and with her sleeves folded on her forearms, a piece of cloth within a glass, and it didn't take the cloudy texture from the item, but seemed to have been deemed by her clean enough as she put the rag over her shoulders; Daud inspected every movement.

            She expected him to ask for an ale, perhaps he should, in another evening. The Pub hummed on his ears, moved predictably on the corners of his eyes. He was never alone and with his back unguarded, but it didn’t hurt to keep his ears sharp.  "An information. About a Serkonan who comes here often." 

           It was a taunt to her nerves, to see the way her pupils tightened within blue irises, and the way nothing else gave way besides that small detail the fact he had asked to the knowing servant. She put the glass between others by a shelf, and without a fault, she spoke. "Who wants to know?" 

           Impressed him her bravery. Or perhaps, her stupidity behind her boldness. Her doe eyes seemed to recognise the face of posters and yet, didn't act on calling him out. "A friend."

           A blatant lie, they both knew. But Daud knew it also delivered an intention, towards a man he only heard of, even if abstractly so. Heard of more than once, and therefore, he could conclude it was true, such was rumours.

           A Witch from Serkonos, whom wore skin of a blood ox in some rumours, or just its bare skin at others. That sailed from afar and landed services to no one. But at times, intervened on acts unrelated, without apparent connection to one another, even less the reason between each or both. A few people that crossed its path however, fed those rumours he now held on notes. Its connection to the pub was unknown, except that whenever those people wanted to find it again, it was through the pub it happened. 

           And here was Daud, for the only thing worse than a Witch perhaps was two of them. But from all that he uncovered, all that him and his Whalers and contacts uncovered on Delilah, a mystery unfolded with no loose thread. Every information seemed to be composed of metaphors, or something akin to the hallucinations of a man hours before weeping.

           Of thorns at times, and poetry that regarded flowers and gardeners, keepers and artisans and there was nothing that one could save from such metaphors. There was no proof by roses, stored in boxes, and despite their remarkable beauty, he had seen bigger in Tyvia, crossbred with Pandyssian variations. Natural Philosophy didn’t fail the Knife, and undergoing a proper examination, the thorns gave them away. Dark and sharp by one side, like the cutting edge of a blade, matched only by the teeth of Pandyssian flytrap plants.

           Amongst debunked ‘magical’ roses, there was myths of white stone, part of mythological statues that came alive under the moonlight; stories of drunken men, terrified of a witch like they had been of his mother once.  He had seen such stones in Serkonos. By the river edge, they gained colours from the minerals the river washed down. And under the right light, preferrably by the morning, doused by cheap wine and exhaustion, the rivers seemed to slither and move. He was no easily impressed, cynical at such claims, but if they were true by any mean, he wouldn’t be capable to tell.

           Another thing he learnt, within the same lesson, was those under the brand of witchcraft or practitioners of similar, only those could tell. Not the Overseers, neither the barkeepers, nor himself. Only truly a witch - or one that pretended to be so, and studied what they mimicked, only those could tell.

           It was a true enough belief, enough to take Daud from the Chamber of Commerce after another Witch they had heard of with more ease than Delilah during their search. To either cross information, gather new, or entice Delilah's attention through the death of one of her own. But death, today, was not something in his mind. He needed information, and for it, he needed a Witch talking. For it, he was willing to risk an enemy, amongst many others, one he truly would utter the word for it. One he _feared,_  a fear that came from the deepest recesses of his being like any man afraid of the unknown.

           "I don't count the Knife of Dunwall amongst my friends." 

           It was simple yet soft, and unravelled like the waves on a peaceful day at the Wrenhaven, in calm tides of the sea outside. Steel and whalebone, dark waters and whale oil, a controversy spoke to him, and his fingers twitched where they stood against the conter, in a heartbeat, they landed in his sword. Fear, and yet, like the patrons of his mother, he began to understand. With a shiver, came both the need to touch and destroy. 

           If this was his Witch, he was doomed. If this was his chance of councellance, there would be no deal.

           Controversy made the world grey, black and white as Daud closed his hand as time bent, darkening on the pub as the music stopped. On the stillness of the Void, silence reigned, but awareness of other things replaced the sound. He wasn't alone in this gap, his mark glowed, but felt cold. The taste of brine stood over his tongue and he hadn't even had a sip of the ale. Brine and hounds and tears, the saltwater that came from within the city to the sea, and not the other way around. Some odd creatures washed ashore the sea didn't bring up the river. It was a cold that he felt on his mark, as if burning again, through his skin, to his flesh and now into his bone. A taste of the river as he stood up quickly, sword in hand and faced his company.

           The controversy he had tasted in the air, an odd mix, was a man dark but colourless as time halted. With it, the flow of a ribbon that tied black hair behind the man's features. Younger, but looks betrayed, and his mark glowed orange on the same way the stranger's eyes glowed in blue and green in a single mix of colour. Touch and destroy. Nothing else had his attention like those glowing eyes, shimmering like whale oil lamps and he stood with a sword, but the witch braced nothing but its gaze towards him. He feared no less.

           “Daud." He said, and the Knife in Dunhall tightened his hold on his sword. He was a known man, a wanted man. There was books, painting, posters, littering the city with his name. And yet, the knowing tune made him feel like the man knew much more. Marked, perhaps. Maybe. Certainly. Daud couldn’t tell, he was surrounded by what he could tell and he needed an ally that could.

           It was hard to breathe. Like foam, full of air but unable to breath. Thick like sea foam. He faced a Witch, and under its gaze the world seemed to funnel; through the light of its talents, the Void drained the substance of the world and along it, whatever was left of Daud’s soul. Every man, assassin or puritan, marked or not, would have held their breath on the same way Daud had before a thing that breathed the Void.

           "Who is asking?" He said, just to have the Witch return the question. "Why you ask?"

           "I asked first." 

           To hear him talking was like whale oil embers, making his breathing harder, burning from within due to chemicals. He made his skin crawl, in a way he thought the world and its mysteries couldn't do anymore, neither did he believe he could feel the instinct of fight and flight so lively and irrationally. Or perhaps, in the most rational way possible. Fighting or flying were the reasonable options here, talking with the Leviathan, not so much. 

           Daud had killed 'witches' before. He had killed them before he was noticed, slid a sword through their bodies or throat, watched their body fall to the floor, silent before, during and after they stopped breathing. None of them had felt so wicked, none of them had ignited such a feeling from him, none of them made his bones vibrate and resonate. But also, none of them had held their gaze, and neither had he been target of their talents. What a different experience he would have lived. One that would teach him to respect his mother’s lesson more religiously.

           "I am asking." He answered, in equal stillness. The word trade of those whom bought time, those who studied - Daud caught himself doing the same. It was his Witch, men like this didn't quite  _exist_ , not here, not in Serkonos, not in Pandyssia, but the Void instead.

           He was shorter and of slimmer build, but by no means lightweight. The shoulders of a soldier or a sailor, with the waist of nobleman, and he wore the same. A dark overcoat, caught by his shoulders and in a dark but not fully black colour, he could not tell what colour exactly without time. In a timeless grasp, colours became mysteries. The hems and breeches shined in metal, either silvery or golden, tailored unto him. Time stopped and with it, the flow of a ribbon, holding back a dark hair long enough to be tied. A hair so dark, with features so firm, that led no doubt - a true Serkonan. 

           "I need information on Delilah." He answered, firm and quiet and if he could, he felt the time stopping a little more - or maybe it was the waters of the river that were coming over the riverbanks, or perhaps the cold that bit on his skin a little further. The Witch's irritation didn't show in his features or his stance, but showed on the flavour over his tongue. Against every knowledge he ever built over the Void, its lonely inhabitant, his abilities and Natural Philosophy. This was something new, something  _else._  And it intrigued. 

           The smell of the depths of the river,  the danger of underwater and depth creatures, shouldn't feel so real or addictive on his senses as it did, or the pull his mark brought him to have or destroy. Kill or worship. It was wicked, it was taunting, and he had no idea what to do with it. This Witch tugged like a gap into the Void and it intrigued; it _addicted._

           "You can't pay for it." He answered, on the same tune in which one would say that a matter was over. It was not, it couldn't be. The Witch clearly knew a lot and it was enough reason to make the Knife of Dunwall unrelenting on his intrusion. 

           Time was still at a halt. A patron, he noticed, was whispering while looking at him. The servant at the bar still held her words at the tip of her tongue, perhaps a question for him to answer, maybe a lie to send him away. Maybe the predictable request that he left. All stopped in a black and white scene as he shook his head. "If money is not a coin you are willing to trade on, name what is." 

           He was expecting indulgence, surely. He didn't expect the Witch to stare at him with his glowing eyes, standing on the doorway to the pub as he watched... And slowly shook his head. "...No. Leave." 

           And with it, the world slowly came back not by his hands but by a flash of blue, colour slowly reaching things and the music picked up from nothing, progressively picking up its pace as it eventually sounded right. Whispers came back to hum on the air, hitching a little as it clicked with the sounds of glasses, silverware, music and footsteps. A glass, somewhere, broke by falling on the floor. The door before him, gave away to the dark streets, barely lit up by the ratlights. 

           "Sir, can you please put the sword away? Or I will have to ask you to leave.” The woman behind him asked, and he turned, tense and dazed as he looked at her. She seemed to hold no awareness of what happened, no one did but that he stood quickly, sword in hand. The mark on the back of his hand vibrated a little bit, as if humming its own song... There was nothing for him to do here anymore. He put his sword back on his hilt and quickly made it out of the door, closing it behind himself.

           Outside, the district remained the same, not bothered by the creature of the Void that passed through it, in a daze. Witches and Assassins were not the same, clearly and obviously not the same. His blood seemed to boil and foam within his veins, uncomfortable, thick and painful at every heartbeat. A Witch was a creature... Of chaos and intrigue and a little bit of everything that he hated in the Outsider the most, in the shape and mortality of men. 

           With all those despicable traits, also the creature carried something that made him chase runes in the dark. The overwhelming _pleasure_ of chasing, of consorting with the Leviathan from the Void and at each practice gone right, the awareness of power, within his palm, up to his whims.

           His boots’ march and expression seemed to have showed enough, for his company showed up - nothing like a glow, bluish and green in a dance, vanishing like a fissure on the world in which the Void shone through, none of it, but the trickling speckles of ash and dust as Billie showed up by his side, but from a distance all the same. "...Was the rumours of the Witch true, sir?" 

           Daud looked at the Whaler for a moment, but his eyes handed on a poster behind him, one of many. This one, however, advertising another fight at the pit. This was not over.

           Should be, was he any wiser, was he any better at keeping himself from chasing mysteries, he enjoyed them, a contract that enticed to be taken and sort out. More addictive than sorting them out, was the taste of ale, tears and river brine.

           Nothing like a mystery in blue for him to chase. "Yes. Take this poster and let's get going."

           Delilah seemed a lot less interesting.


	2. The Wayfaring Stranger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud has a dream, and choose whom to bring with himself to the Hound Pits Pub. The constructive chapter made to set the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter, perhaps to keep you, anonymous readers, entertained and perhaps guilt tripped into commenting. Jokes apart, do write something. The hits this has received have been rewarding and I am beyond contented. Thank you that pass by this and enjoyed it enough to press ‘next chapter’.
> 
> I promise to dwell further and set you better on the timelines. Where it stands before the DLC Knife of Dunwall, Brigmore Witches and Dishonored’s timeline itself. I shall clarify further on the end note as to not spoil the fun of this chapter, but if you are willing, fell free to scroll to the end.
> 
> Thank you for reading this and everything else. May the Outsider guard you.

**_"The Wayfaring Stranger."_ **

 

                “Dear Daud…”

                He called to him with a nature that may rival mortal men, too addicted to keep away, too entertained by the chaos liquor brought. In more ways than one, Daud saw more than the blue of the Void in its raw form, shaped in the features of a young man.

                Every year that passed, he understood more of this being that called to him on his sleep. This was, indeed and simply, the sign of his era being about to end, with his wings burnt and crisp, for fluttering too close to the flames.

                The whale God was no longer so tasteless, and his words no longer hid like it used to its background intentions. Either they began to exist now, desires behind his words, or Daud just picked them now. Either way, he could find more in the pitch black darkness of the Leviathan’s eyes, as if his own had adjusted to the darkness with time.

                And right now, he seemed short from _exhilarated_. “You are strangely silent today.” He seemed to muse, his voice holding the flavours of interest. It had been the most interested he had seen the Leviathan in a while, he dared to say, more than when his eyes closed for a moment before the Empress’ last breath.

                He faced the whale God and having again the presence of the deity didn’t make him feel anymore blessed than he had been by its abandonment. His throat cleared from the halt it had felt into, unknowingly. The Leviathan couldn’t find in him anymore love and hate than he already possessed. And perhaps, a slimmer of indifference.

                Which would entertain it further, his mind supplied. Indifference must not be something he was used to. “I am walking in the dark, and you know it.”

                Perhaps as Billie had remarked once, from being in the Chamber so long, Daud grew spoiled whenever faced with unknowing. He would adore proving her wrong, but in the matter at hand, he didn’t find it an option.

                His words, however, seemed to bring a strange joy on the being, for its smile grew wide, amused and unconcealed and almost human in its beauty and frightening nature. “Oh, indeed. But you have always walked on dark paths you don’t know of. Is that so different from the previous ones?”

                “Yes, and you know it as well.” He nodded, dryly. “I know nothing of magic beyond my mark.”

                This entertainment, so bare, seemed to expose much more humanity than it was due. Overjoyed but foreign, not by any means human - outside of Daud’s understanding. He wondered if his newfound ability to see further into the Leviathan’s eyes were the sign of his nearing end, as he was falling into an abyss and nearing the inevitable hit at the bottom, or perhaps the Outsider liked to entertain him so in the same amount he must give the deity the pleasure.

                In any way, old dogs had remarkable wits, he had been told. Before his mind, laid his heart, which read those features and told of an adamant joy on the creature’s features.

                “Don’t you?” He wondered, curling fingers and the edges of his lips, in a smile that crawled and straightened at his features. “The ink you paint at your followers’ bodies, the way you return the whispering to your runes, before they crack into dust within your palm and you have their energy absorbed by your gift.”

                “It is all magic, Daud.” The Outsider was nonchalant like nothingness, still. “Different, yes, like the change of your sword to a pistol, like the difference between the abilities you have developed. All rituals, all runes and charms crafted, all dances beneath moonlight to the gain of favours – they all melt down to the same thing. Magic and the Void.”

                The idea of moonlight dances Witches must practice seemed intriguing on his mind for some unknown reason. And with it, the creature in question came to haunt his mind.

                “Yes. Witches, you call them, and they call themselves, but you do not use such name to yourself.”

                It was pretentious of him to ask questions to the whale God, but holding his tongue was not something he ever came to fear. The world was falling apart, each night he held a dying Empress in his arms and himself read over his choices through his life.

                Not mistakes, the Knife didn’t dare calling them that; choices. He never laid down a life without the awareness of the wrongness of his actions. He had never wanted to step out of the path that wasn’t the easiest, neither the darkest, but the bloodiest. Was too late for himself to change his ways, and another dozen of bodies wouldn’t make a difference.

                But hers had. And the last time he held his tongue, he had killed an Empress whose death shook an Empire and he wasn’t unaffected like other contracts had allowed him to pass untarnished. He had held his tongue then, and regretted it before even shaking hands with the Lord Regent. He wouldn’t regret not voicing his mind again.

                “And what about him, the Witch I have met?” To trust was subjective, and to ask from the Leviathan to elaborate would bore the creature to death. Daud knew their dance already, and from the looks of the whale God, the question seemed to amuse.

                “A Witch’s favour is priceless, I will tell you that. His can change your path and the way events unfold completely.” The Outsider mused, losing itself in wonders in a way it seemed to always be halfway into. Dreaming away, eternally. And yet, couldn’t be anymore awake. “He adds a variable not even I can predict. I couldn’t be more fascinated.”

                He didn’t lie, Daud himself came to muse. One thing that he couldn’t accuse the whale God of doing, it was lying. Omitting, perhaps, but not lying.

                “Why would I?” He seemed to intrude, more curious than evil or good, and the Knife watched, in eternal enthrallment, the way the Void’s flagellated shards of existence tickled and danced, at times sparkling, over the Leviathan’s unreachable pale skin. “Do not disappoint me with stillness, not knowing is not a dead end. If anything, it is only the beginning.”

                Motivationals were not something he ever expected to find in the Void. And yet, in the desolation of the blue emptiness, he would never think of it as so. In chaos and pain, the mad found encouragement to their actions. Daud hated to see himself on the same hopeless bottom. “Beginning of what?”

                His smile, softer and nearly caring, followed by a tilt of his head, seemed almost like an apology. Almost. He knew it was all he would get of the sort.

                For him, it became even clearer that the whale God seemed to intrude when it fit its desires best.  When the result would be interesting, or unpredictable, and for the Leviathan’s mind, it meant probably both. It was no use inquiring further, dancing with the Leviathan with curved questions and even curvier answers.

                “Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.” Make tomorrow a better day, he seemed to say, even though the Outsider was sovereign in his entertainment. He almost seemed to expect a promise that it would fascinate it even more than the day before.

                Daud didn’t like giving his patron God anything he wanted, but it seemed that whatever course of action he took, would interest it enough.

                “Maybe.” He promised anyway.

 

* * *

 

                Daud pitied a little the souls outside during the Month of High Cold.

                He had seen a woman, at the Flooded District, almost fall on the flooded canals by leaning over the walkway, half of her body over the ledge, gravity pulling at her blood, at her tears, at her thoughts even, almost bringing her to fall over into the dark, putrid waters. Her tears and the bubbles the hagfishes let out were the only turmoil over the surface, as she reached for a weeper’s body and from it, took its gloves. She dried them by a makeshift fire, and it didn’t manage to douse the stench of plague, but rendered the thick fabric wearable once more as she dressed her child’s frostbitten hands with it.

                It was cold. During the night, the winds howled and windows, with little exceptions, were hard to see through. The frost that spread like a web over them announced the nearing of the Month of Ice which would make their lives harder. He didn’t pity them for long, however.

                The moment he crossed the district once more, she wept, and her child’s bloodied tears dried finally. His hands were warm while hers weren’t. Her nails were falling off like the chunks of her hair, putrid with infection, rotten while she still breathed. The next time he crossed this pathway, he knew they wouldn’t be in one piece anymore. The rats would have had their feast.

                He could have avoided crossing this same path, but he didn’t. Served him as a reminder. When Dunwall seemed to stand barely over the sea of corpses, avoiding the death and the ill so they could cling to the slightest hint of order, he reeled on the imagery. Unlatching himself from reality was not something he allowed himself to indulge on. And in a way, it fed enough fuel to rise from his bed after an unusual long morning, in which he barked to whoever dared to near the Chamber of Commerce.

                The words traded during his dream didn’t leave his mind. Stillness did not entertain, and against his nature he allowed himself to indulge on boring the Outsider with his quietness. Quiet breaths over the hem of exquisite, expensive blankets, above the gelid cold of the district and its flood. Quiet mourning and debates and arguments, one sided over the mark on the back of his hand.

                It had been a while since anything related to it was a problem in his mind. Never had he bothered to chase others that might or might not have the same skills he did. The rumours of witchcraft only served to make him think those practitioners didn’t know what _true_ magic was. They would pour each other’s blood and sacrifice unborn and newborn children and they wouldn’t get a glimpse of what he had.

                Now, he felt like it was the other way around. Daud knew nothing, and _he_ wouldn’t ever get a glimpse of what they had _._

                And it was with resignation he began to move after midday and only then. When the sun was high up and yet didn’t heat, but seemed to be enough to make the flooded canal boil and the stench of rot raise from a distance. Daud mentioned it once, but he seemed to be the only one capable of smelling it from so far of their square. Perhaps they all grew used to it, but he didn’t allow himself to forget.

                Perhaps Billie was right to say he was softer. The smell of rot and death didn’t bother him before in this manner. Maybe it wasn’t the stench itself, but the fact he caused it without intending to.

                “I thought you would have a plan in mind by yesterday still.” Billie came to comment, traipsing careful and quiet footsteps over the floorboards, with a similar edge to her voice that he, at times, was sure he could hear from himself.

                Long gone were the years she feared speaking up to him, or respected him enough to avoid doing so often. She must see him like nothing more than an aging horse, no longer as sharp as she thought he had to be. He wouldn’t prove her wrong for the sake of it. Yet, he grew to believe the spite and frustration she so clearly showed before him were also doused with something similar to affection.

                For of course Daud couldn’t expect affection out of the children, urchins and slaves and prostitutes and abandoned bastards that he raised into killers. He couldn’t expect neither he required of them to look up to him and see him more of a tutor, in their world such links could be seen as vulnerability.

                But the Knife also knew it was no use trying to break some bonds, and not acknowledging them within his soul was the same as leaving them bare for everyone but himself. Knowing, allowed him to build barriers around it, awareness made him prepared, for best and worse. Or so he thought.

                They might not see him the same he saw them. But those children were his children, or the closest of it he could find. He knew it was the closest he would ever find. Knowing was the only safety he could grant himself and them, and yet, there seemed to be nothing to truly know in this world anymore. He didn’t know fully the consequences of murdering the Empress and didn’t know what laid ahead either.

                He didn’t know why Billie’s eyes darkened and cooled as they did on these last months. Perhaps she was growing older, wiser, like he expected her to. Was nearing the time he hoped to pass to her the leadership of their group. He didn’t like to think that those eyes were cooling because of him, and the words she handed to him as tease were crueller and true in her heart.

                “Now I do.” Was odd for the Master Assassin to be without a plan, he couldn’t trace one, not now, not in these situations. He had debated and considered everything that he knew. And he knew nothing.

                Nothing was a dead end, he wished he could correct the Outsider before his dark eyes and vacant kingdom. It was a dead end until he found something else, even if he had to punch every wall after a hidden entrance.

                “You don’t seem so sure.” Billie added, and he reeled on the way her pacing mimicked his own… Her march, even if lighter and more thoughtful than his, had the same pace. How could he witness such things and don’t cherish in his blindness, the only weakness he would allow himself to have without the slightest desire to change.

                “Perhaps I don’t want to share it with you.” He stated firmly, adjusting his coat without the same security. He wasn’t leaving just yet. His words were rough but it was the best and only way she would catch the message. Billie halted her pacing to tap with her foot the flooring. “What I leave to you is to manage this place while I am out.”

                “I’m not going with you. Why? I thought it was dangerous to thread with _Witches._ ” She spat back in her defiance, and through it, he could hear himself warning them against Witches and rumours of Witches. To never cross them, even if it was just to pass by unknowingly by the consorts of the Outsider. However if it couldn’t be avoided, don’t do so alone.

                And for this reason, he planned to do so by his own, or take some milder tempered Whaler with him.  Not Billie. It was on the undertone of his voice. _Not Billie._ “Help Rufio with the younger recruits. Keep an eye on everything, that is an order. I’m taking Thomas.”

                It was not met contentedly, and with a short bow in what seemed more like defiance instead of subordination, she vanished from his sight with just a tingle on his spine. Her use of his abilities, so close, left a burning feeling of her haste and bitterness. She wasn’t happy, but her fiery temper would subdue in time.

                And like Billie, the mood settled on Rudshore with the flavour of embers over frost. Despite the wintery chill coming through the ceiling, no one had moved to fix it. He spared Vladko a few coins, he could get things done. The Tyvian seemed eternally reddish, from brandy or most of the time, the heat, but the Month of the High Cold seemed to remind him of his home and like expected of him, he caught the pouch and vanished. Either the ceiling would be fixed now once and for all, or the pantry would be filled with bottles once more. An act of corruption, if not so democratically elected amongst his fellow Whalers.

                He wondered at times how he still had some control over them. A check on the younger recruits provided him with what he already knew. Billie was nowhere close to aid Rufio with tending to them. From the Master Assassin, he caught the reports on rumours and words and possible witnesses on the ‘Delilah’, be it whatever it could be.

                Even fewer on the Witch of the Hound Pits Pub, but he would prove their veracity.

                When it was time. He called for Thomas at the Chamber of Commerce. The cutthroat from Morley with his quietness and thoughtfulness seemed to echo with synchrony something else. Something he should have been, perhaps. He was light on his feet, and wouldn’t jump in to save Daud’s life without a plan, one in which he considered all variables and then some more. No one better to handle a Witch by his side.

                For once, in case of conflict, he wasn’t going armed for a fight, but to escape.

                “Have you ever been to a hound pit?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the foot notes that may ground you better:
> 
> Corvo, as you must have guessed, was never Lord Protector. His connections to Emily and Jessamine may not exist as well.
> 
> The loyalists converse and fiddle after a plan that has not yet been formed; Lays only in abstract plans and intentions.
> 
> Marked people, as it is mentioned by the Outsider itself somewhere, goes beyond a simple mark. Some people touched by the Void may not have an mark like official Corvo and Daud. I have taken liberties about how to interpret that. The greatest proof of this and base argument I hold, is Piero’s existence, projects, influence from the Void and actions that if you ask me, rival Delilah’s when it comes to sync of talent and inspiration from the Void.
> 
> The name of this chapter come from a song, a classic, called The Wayfaring Stranger. It is the tale of a man nearing his death. Jamie Woon made a cover of it, partnered up with Burial. If you ask me, its moody match perfectly a killer going through the Void. It manages to be beautiful and odd.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSe4CxEvFiE
> 
> I will focus and deliver Daud’s DLC and actions mainly. Perhaps by the end of this, I will give the same attention and deliverance to the main story of Dishonored, in a work that sequel this own. 
> 
> It will all depend on the feedback I receive from this. Once more, thank you for reading and pressing ‘next chapter’. I cannot put in words how this work and the number of hits makes my heart skip beats. Feedback is always welcome, but if not, subscribe to this work. 
> 
> More will come, and please stay tuned.


	3. Rigged Hound Fights.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud leaves to the Hound Pits Pub to find his Witch again. To manage a Witch is worse than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Animal Abuse/Violence/Gore.  
> (I do not encourage violence or abuse towards animals. These only are used for the sake of fiction, mood construction and loyalty to the main work.)
> 
> I have no self-control and wrote this chapter and the one before in a single work of 8k words.
> 
> I had no idea if I could edit all of this on the same day so I choose to divide it unevenly, but in the most comfortable way to the flow of the story. So forgive the short chapter of before, this one will be different.
> 
> Enjoy. Subscribe. Leave a critic or a hello on the comments. Be a good community member. Buy me a pint.
> 
> Thank you for getting this far and pressing ‘next chapter’ TWICE in this story. I cannot bring to words how much this means to me. Stay tuned for more.

_**"Rigged Hound Fights."** _

                The evening remained cold, all the way into the dark night it progressed into. Carried clouds but not rain; they revolved without weight, spinning unto the faster winds above and all fabrics, all forms curved and waved to wind, shimmering in a mirage caused by the nightlights, twisting objects between the lights and himself.

                The moonlight was concealed behind most of the clouds, but at times, gaps on the clouded ceiling above the world, gave away its sight; a new moon. Along it, spring tides in either very tall or very shallow daily volumes, showed by the recess or progression of the Wrenhaven, giving out a little more room for sand and stone on its shores. It was a quiet low tide, the river seemed almost timid.

                Quiet like the Hound Pits Pub. The barkeepers and clients both assembled on a nearby building, surrounding a bloodstained cage and stone that could be rinsed and scrubbed but never would be white again.

                Daud signalled for Thomas to hold his guard nearby, as he transversed to the ceiling of said building and watched. Behind the pub, a small pale yard left itself mostly unattended. Grass and reeds grew from the cracks on the concrete, out of stubbornness as they were shook by the wind. When the rains came, and the Wrenhaven overflowed, he was sure that some of those reeds might have enough water to sustain themselves for a year or more without another bath.

                A small building, akin to a workshop from its contents, seemed to sit on a modest two store building. Across it, the pieces of a building before the river and abandonment made it crumble. What was left of the building, perhaps a couple of very strong pillars, were enough to keep up a fraction of the building standing, with all of its five stores. The result seemed like an exotic, unique tower, with metal walkways connecting it to the attic of the pub, over the ceiling of the workshop.

                Something seemed to tug at the Serkonan Assassin, but he voted against it. Within, his eyes saw nothing and his heart echoed cold notes of whalesong. _Later_.

                But closer to him, by the end of the courtyard, a commotion assembled, and he transversed to one of the air ducts above, evading brick walls to grasp and climb under the ceiling, between brick and metal.

                His dark gaze faded, to reveal the sight within. Walkways stood on grids, in three or more levels above the ground floor. Metal cages rusty, clawed, didn’t need the paintings on the side to tell its tale. Hound cages. Some of which, he could see the beasts watching him; their heartbeats or snarling, he couldn’t exactly tell, sounded loud enough for him to hear. They were no different from the patrons underneath.

                Some drunk, some very sober, assembled in dozens as they watched from the first and second level of walkways a hole, surrounded by blackened bars. Servants handed drinks left and right, in exchange for still clean coin – at the very least, dry and cold from blood. Like his hands, they weren’t clean. Merely dry. 

                There was a roaring beauty to it, if Daud was honest. The way men of all kind seemed to wail in unison with the hounds within their cages, or better yet, they _roared_. They hit the handrails and stomped their boots, metal clanking as the bright lights lit up the square where beasts that knew no other life would tear each other like if starved. A massacre that repeated itself over and over in an addiction, from it, money and joy and _thrill_ was dealt. It was lucrative in all the three values.

                Daud had seen Overseers and their hounds, and the creatures at work were excruciating in their deliverance. Bred into light but muscular creatures, seemingly the perfect height to look under chairs, beds, tables, holes, sanctuaries, and always found what they sought. Strong enough to climb crates and grasp children from  a mother’s arms. Also bred to stand tall enough to be grasped by the harness and through only that, be held from mangling the guilty and the innocent into a single mess of parts.

 On the hands of a man more corrupted than not, a beast with no remorse desperately craved to be unleashed unto the only action it knew would be rewarded in its existence. No Whaler, him not an exception, had a single edge of liking or a good experience with the hounds. Their long and wide jaws could be compared to the hagfish, and they mangled in the same speed.

                Nonetheless, there was a beauty to it, seeing such animals moving. Just another creature he had the opportunity of studying at the Academy. And without a doubt, to the beast, there was elegance in the mashup of traits bred into it. Born to serve, and serve to death.

                He had no doubt they would mangle each other to death within that cage. But also, his fingers twitched with the curiosity and experience of an assassin of his calibre. Releasing such creatures on the patrons sounded like a proper way to deliver an assassination here.

                _Maybe next time._

                His thoughts were interrupted from further watching as his mark dug into his bones on a way that he had felt only once.

                Daud covered it with his palm and steeped further back into the shadows. And his gaze slipped from the hound pit to his walkway, and across from the gap that made the pit visible from above, on the dark, a figure stood.

                He hadn’t noticed him before, neither had he been noticed, both behind bright spotlights, was easy to don’t see the man in the dark. On the same way he hadn’t been noticed, he hadn’t seen the men across the gap, amongst crates and packages stored there.

                It was the Witch, he didn’t doubt it. Was like looking into a rune, even through walls, his eyes falling over it made his whole being _vibrate_ , unconsciously resonating in return, conversing even if the Knife hadn’t uttered a word; his soul, however, seemed to. It sang and trembled, sinew stretched like the strings of a violin, singing its melody caused by friction. Being in the same room as the Witch seemed to put a world to a halt, even without bending time. Two opposite forces, like magnets, put together, pulling and pushing and yet standing one before the other, and the world revolved around that clash.

                It was as if close, in friction, the fabrics of the world grew thinner and the Void threatened to surface and spill unto the world. And never like before, Daud felt more like a heretic, for he wanted it to _overflow_.

                The Witch was as rumours whispered. Bronze skin that he could now see, fully and bare in the dark. Hair laid in disarray over marked, tattooed shoulders, marked with patterns that if were anything like his men’s, he would have recognised from the distance. They were not. Patterns of all sorts laid over in strips and swirls, like the straight lines in the fibres of leaves and the beads like the scales of fish. In other parts, runes and symbols for him foreign, seemed to follow the anarchy of clockwork – or was it a scramble of fur and wool?

                From the distance, he couldn’t tell, except was far more delicate and diversely worked on than the ones he put on his followers. Unique, to every edge and pattern it followed, combined in harmony. The body it adorned seemed to follow the ruled. He stood barefoot over the grid of the walkway, bare if not some loose, spare pair of pants. Lounge wear.

                He would have thought he caught the man in a day off if only it didn’t _feel_ like that. The sparse light was reflected on his skin, and sparkled, for Daud at least, glowing and shimmering like whale oil lamps under the Wrenhaven, veiled by the dark water of the river, those tattoos over the Witch’s skin shimmered on the same way. And he watched, mesmerised, and focused as a man, an Admiral from the uniform he wore, spoke lowly close to the Witch.

                “The bets are decent today on Sparky, but not enough to kill Scutter. We can’t afford to replace him, so try to pin him down until the end of the three minutes.”  The Admiral spoke, and the Witch nodded on the dark, eyes focused on the pit. When his hold tightened and his body flexed, tensed like a bird of prey ready to fall down on a hare, he was sure his being seemed to lit up under his skin, shown only through the tattoos on this body that revealed that energy.

                Under the palm that hid it, his mark did the same. “If the bets raise enough that I see they are ready to bet more money, I will blow the whistle... Try to avoid killing him, but if it will make a good show and I sang the whistle, feel free to make it ugly.”

                The Witch nodded again, tensing and glowing and moving a little as he gripped the handrail tighter. Not resolve or the lack of it, but thought, an unnameable sort of concentration and focus over something Daud could only but try to understand.  It was appealing to watch, even though he felt like running away from sight before he was found out, now transversing away seemed to catch much more attention than remaining still.

                So he stood, as the Admiral whispered good luck to the Witch, with the dryness as one would remind a soldier of what was at stake, and the Witch seemed to gaze, for a moment, through the Admiral’s back into his heart. Those dark eyes, behind the light seemed even darker. And before he knew it, he turned his eyes to the pit as the Admiral announced the beginning of the fight through a countdown from ten.

                And after the number one, under the wails and howls of the patrons, the gates opened, and the Witch whom monopolised his attention vanished into the dark.

                Perhaps only through a tug of his eyes, as if he could see in the direction the blue and green spirit had vanished, he looked down at the pits and a hound was dark like coins bathed in old blood. Dark like he had recalled another brawl there, dark like blood, bathed into something that quite was apart from any hound coat he had seen before.  

                Surrounding one of the hounds, a cloud of smoke like a mist of gold and chokedust circled the creature’s head. No one seemed to notice it but him, otherwise patrons would have questioned it. But for him it was clear as day.

                The hounds circled each other slowly, prowling and snarling and poked with harpoons or makeshift spears whenever they got too close to the gates, forcing the beasts to prowl closer to one another… Until the first jumped and he was lured to the edge so to see the ferocity in which they clashed. Jaws and fangs snapping unto one another, the odd hound on his vision evading the other from getting a firm grip. They snapped to one another like bear traps, loud, quick and powerful, he could hear those snaps clearly above the crowd when they landed in nothing but air.

                The bellowing when one landed a bite, however, was a moan that echoed on his head for long minutes after. The odd beast bit and shook its head, muscles of its neck taunt as it gripped in flesh, hide and muscle and shook its head from side to side, with such strength and violence that every tug back, made it raise unto its hind legs. The hound, chestnut coated, howled painfully above the chorus of praise and wails and misery.

                So like Dunwall, to find joy in chaos and distress.

                The odd hound bit and tore and evaded with an amount of precision and skill that Daud knew, from studying targets so much, were _utterly human_. The tugs, the sharp eyes that never grew glossy or closed, stared into every corner, looked at muscles and not mouths. Predicted movement from the arch of a tail, and saw it coming from the fangs without looking at them.

                And his heart shivered, every time; watching the fight was enthralling for his mark glowed incessantly and shuddered upon gazing the odd hound for it was his Witch. He had no doubt, he didn’t question that awareness. None of this would Natural Philosophy explain.

                The Outsider mentioned it was no different from his abilities, and he didn’t turn his back to his guts. His Witch was there. Was there on each jump, bite, tug and wail from the hound, every snarling, panting and foaming mouth as it bit and fought.               

Bets were traded, added in one side or the other, the patrons cursed and metal rods hit the bars loudly. His eyes didn’t let go of the creatures, and when he did, it was to tilt his head when a whistle sounded, and if it was possible, it got bloodier.

                He had no doubt then. Under the chant of the fascinated, adrenaline and alcohol high crowd, the odd hound bit deeper. The torn apart pieces were never spat aside, but swallowed. The beasts were ravenous. They bit like they seemed to be eating each other up, blood pooled down over the stone and clogged a drain by the corner. The pit began smelling like a slaughterhouse.

                Scutter died with more honour and grace than most Weepers did through Dunwall. With a chunk of its neck missing, and as it convulsed on the stone, whining as its bloodied drool foamed red and its tongue was bitten out by itself; a bite at his spine cracked something and was enough to make it stop moving at once. From the surroundings, the crowd wailed, in cheers or anger, what varied was the quantity. The hound wasn’t mourning, but the money lost bet on him was. Daud could easily tell that the patrons lost more money to the pub than they were leaving with.

                Soon enough, the winner hound with its dark coat, black before and after being bathed in blood, shook off its fur... And underneath the blood, a creamy coat appeared. Bloodied, but creamy like cinnamon ox milk. Along the dark colour of it, vanished with the hue the cloud over its head. The beast began sniffing around, panting, obviously dazed. Daud felt his heart beating against his throat. His blood seemed to be boiling in adrenaline and not unlike a beast, himself, _blood thirst._

“You aren’t here for betting on the hounds, I assume.”

                It came from his side, enough to make him reach for his sword, but his hand never landed to the hilt.

                The Witch was much closer than last time, and now his body glistened from sweat and blood, to the point his state of underdressing made sense. Was appropriate, even. Raven hair, less than a couple meters away, seemed auburn from the greasiness it had been bathed in. Muscle, skin and markings were coated and washed in gore and sweat. The stench lingered around him like a butcher; it unnerved and lured in the thirsty.

                He had his arms rested over the handrail like one would to the counter of a pub, and his hair stuck on his face like it did to the Weepers at the drainage sewers, glued by grease to his features dark like a black rat on the rain.

                 His mark flared, pleased, dependent.  It was as if he was drowning in a tank of sharks and despite the menace, part of him adored the sight.

                “I always had a feeling they were rigged.” He responded, and for a moment, the Witch just sighed, in exhaustion and amusement, both, or none.  A contradiction, like underwater birds, Leviathans at the land or protectors taking lives like reapers.  It had a unique flavour of impossibility that lingered on darkened skin and lips coloured with blood like paint. The stench was foul, but enticing.

                Enticing like being close to the Witch, that made his mark flare on his skin, shining orange and steady and still, warming him by a heat that travelled through his whole being.  Different, very different from himself…  And he noticed, behind the bright spotlights, that the back of his hands both were blank from a mark like his. Unmarked but _touched_ , in some way. Marked but not marked; a contradiction.

                “You have a keen eye then.” He said, dryly and unknown if amused or not, as he reached to the crates aside – the movement interested the Knife of Dunwall greatly. His eyes followed, to gaze upon his tattoos, the marks like nothing he had seen before, indeed like nothing that he did on his followers, like nothing he ever saw. Maybe the only similarity he could find it, were to foreign runes and scripts forming textures; like feather, like hair, like wool, like fur, like machine.

                 From the crates, the Witch took a pouch and from it withdrew a cigar and a box of matchsticks that he carefully risked against the box. He broke two before managing to make a steady flame with the third, and after it burnt enough into the wood and tasted like sulphur no more, he lit his cigar with it.

                “You didn’t even consider speaking of what I asked you.” Daud mentioned, and the Witch gazed down at the pit, inhaling deeply of the cigar for three to five drags as the Knife counted them. The intensity of it named the intent – he was after a lightheaded rush. Weren’t the patrons present tonight after the same?

                Men were addicted to the pit fights, and apparently, _so were the hounds_.

                “You found me an uncomfortable subject to tread on.” Was his answer, quiet like a whisper through blue smoke.

                Daud wouldn’t have asked it if he had another option but to be straightforward. He had been chasing dead ends for too long, he couldn’t tell a myth and a lie from the truth, he was running in the dark – unlike any other blind chase he ever did. And age made him egocentric, downright vain, but also stubbornly methodical; this was not something he was going to do without experience and favours by his side. “I have no other choice but to be straightforward.”

                His nails were black, Daud noticed on the dark. They reflected the faint light on the way they warped around the cigar, moving it from his lips at a pace vacant of worry, but his eyes, dark and deep and borderline unreadable like a hound’s, with the elegance of a bird of prey, those eyes were trained on Daud. Measuring the worth of speaking to him, and perhaps, too tired to vanish into a sparkle of blue and green. The Knife knew from experience that exhaustion that lingered on the other’s features. Adrenaline was subtle on its arrival, but tore the doorways in its way out.

                “What do you know?” He spoke, words rushing through his almost closed lips and with it, smoke, in a delicate blow like a too old organ, finally rushing sound and song through its pipes. The sound that echoed on his mind was no different. It trembled in metal pipes but its reeds were too flexible to be metallic, their fibres were something he could taste; tasted woodland, like the Serkonan’s accent.

                He spoke like an oboe, quiet but full of sound and grace. At a distance, he couldn’t tell what sirens of the whaling ships were, what was whalesong, and what was a hushed whisper. “Nothing. Rumours say she is a Witch. Rumours say you are too.”

                He must have sounded like he was putting both creatures on the same lot, and it in some way didn’t seem to please the man before him. His dark brows neared, in an arched, furrowed sculpture; rich in personality and detail that seemed to change the sentiment and message of those eyes fully to the Assassin. Volatile like whale oil, unforgiving like the nearing winter, he revolved like the Void.

                “None are wrong.” Neither were they fully right – it remained suspended in the air before them, with no need to be addressed. The man, the _Witch;_ turned around on his ankles and walked past Daud to one of the sliding glass windows on top of the building.

                At the height of his chest, he lifted what seemed like a rubber or leather cover from latches, probably covered so patrons wouldn’t open them, and carefully he slid the windows open. The cold that slipped in made Daud’s body tense but to the Witch, his figure came to a intense shiver. He carefully climbed the edge, and didn’t ever consider the four stores fall before his eyes, it didn’t bother him. Instead, at the edge he observed the river, the yard where patrons left stumbling, cursing or both.

                It also must have lingered on the air the sensation Daud was waiting for him to elaborate, for the Witch looked over his shoulder to murmur, as he killed what was left of his cigar against the windowsill. “Follow me.”

                And in a bout of pale light, blue and green and _elegance_ , a light that he had a feeling only he could see, he vanished from the edge of the window to cross to the other rooftops, in a flicker of the same light. It was as if coming from the Void itself, and letting a bit of its ethereal light escape unto this world.  When he crossed the rooftops again, Daud could see already the walkway he took, towards the ruined building, isolated like an odd tower.

                He followed in fewer transversals, walking after the Witch whom opened the door that must have been purposely left unlocked – whom would leave a door unlocked in such times of plague and crime? Daud didn’t walk in at first, but watched from the doorway.

                There was a trapdoor open towards the room above, and a closed one to the floor of beneath, both probably on the same situation as this one. Littered with bookshelves and items, a chalkboard littered with scribbles stood on a corner, and for a moment, he might have confused where he stood. An abandoned room or the Academy itself, he couldn’t quite tell if not for the pieces that littered the corners. Bags and herbs and rats, dead and submerged in vinegar or formaldehyde, he would guess from experience.

                 The coat hanger had more than one overcoat. One a dark blue, he had seen it on the man the night before. Close to it, a cheap City Watch coat, probably scavenged, from the water and dried bloodstains. This one he pulled over his bare, bloodbathed body. It was oversized and covered him down to the knees. On the hanger, remained two other pieces. Cloaks, he noticed. Short and of pelt, one of black feathers, another from a hound’s winter coat. They seemed wrong to his senses, enough to ward his gaze elsewhere.

                Within, the Witch passed by the almost unnoticeable bed to the opposite bookshelf, filled almost completely from top to bottom with all sorts of boxes and objects.

                “Simple rumours of Witches wouldn’t have your attention. The Outsider told you of her.” He spoke, and it wasn’t a question. Daud shook his head from the doorway, but his eyes that never left the Witch’s back, now nailed on the back of his skull further.

                “How do you know?” He returned to the raven haired man, and he looked up to his eyes with a knowing look before getting a box from the shelves and putting it over his bed to inspect its contents. “The same way you did.”

                 Witchcraft, it echoed on his mind. He wasn’t suspicious toward Witches, he was downright terrified of them. No egocentric approach would blind him to the fact that an unknown, mirrored version of a killer with his talents, or perhaps even more power than himself, it was terrifying. He would never deny that fact and never did his mind allow himself to forget the menace.

                Unconsciously, his eyes went to the back of the Witch’s hands. Blank. He had searched, but he didn’t find a mark like his on his body. He must have been caught searching for it, for when he looked back at the Witch, a bird of prey’s eyes were on his and he spoke. “Not all marked have it branded on their hands.”

                Now he knew it. “I assume you choose to help me.” Daud choose to say in return, no use dwelling on something he didn’t understand, and perhaps never would. He was practice and theory – despite having caught the interest of the deity in common, he had never been one to believe if he could not prove it worked.

                His skills worked, his mark worked, Natural Philosophy worked. Those he could rely on. A group of actions without reason or foundation in hopes to gain a favour from a deity so volatile and unpredictable, that was not something he relied on. Neither he wanted to.  That it even was believed to work for some seemed foolish for him.

                The Witch’s eyes met his own and he took a small group of papers and notes, others pamphlets, that he carefully spread over the bed. He was left without an answer, but was acknowledged from the looks of it. From what Daud was seeing, perhaps the foolish one was him. In some way, it must work for some. It worked for him.

                “There is a ship named Delilah. It sails for the Rothwild Slaughterhouse.” He said, taking a poster from the pile and he carefully opened it, along the merchandising, the small letters provided an address. Was all Daud needed to approach, and the Witch looked up at him before opening a newer but wrinkled piece, a pamphlet. “Everything favours an infiltration. There is a strike planned for tomorrow at the second shift, by the second first hour.”

                Daud nodded, his eyes inspecting the papers. A mad run after information was not what he expected. “I thought you would know more.” He seemed a little disappointed, undoubtedly, but couldn’t be helped. He didn’t risk being shot for the sake of so little, even less if it was useless.

                The Witch stood up, a chill travelling down the assassin’s spine as he met his gaze. His words tasted like brine and were cold like the Wrenhaven. “Delilah manipulated many people through her ascend. If I can find the name of one of these people whom were close to her, it will be much easier to connect the dots.”

                He couldn’t shake off the feeling he was being used. He hadn’t shared what exactly he wanted information on, neither had the Witch asked. But he didn’t question. Was the closest he got to anything and if this hunt for information would deliver more at the end, was beyond what he could hope for. While he was not pleased, he could manage such a deal.

                “I will come with whatever information I gather, then.” Daud said, and he watched the way the Witch’s brow raised – he had a feeling it was not something that happened often. He should be amazed at his ability to step on the Witch’s tail. “You thought I wasn’t going?”

                This ability he had apparently was the same the man had to get to Daud’s own nerves. That he made his mark shine and his body shiver wasn’t unnerving enough, he also had the skill to crawl under his skin, and surprise him with his unpredictable nature.  “I’m not going to play bodyguard for a _civilian_.”

                “I was going to say the same, but your loud footsteps are the distraction I need to get in there.” The Witch returned and sure the Knife of Dunwall could feel his whole being shiver. He was, as a matter of fact, impossible to argue with it, Daud branded in his mind. With the Witch would die his secrets and it laid understated that he would have to look over the man; a problem, a nuisance, an otherworldly stress that he was not being paid for and the Outsider’s mystery was not worth this.

                He would rather handle not knowing.

                It irked him terribly to have his skill challenged in such a manner, and he wanted to fire back that he wasn’t loud, but perhaps he wouldn’t be found out twice by the Witch if they were as light as he thought. It didn’t change the fact that it irked him to hear such a challenge. Worse yet was that he couldn’t even vanish, halt time and bend it to its will, and choke air out of a lean Serkonan neck and leave the hound of a man with unconsciousness as an answer.

                Not only would he ruin any chance of getting information from the Witch, he would find himself an enemy he feared more than anything. Like a hound indeed, the man seemed to know that. And not only irreconcilable, he probably would be there at the Slaughterhouse to make sure to announce to every guard, siren and butcher and Rothwild himself that Daud would come forward.

                It irked him to see those dark eyes narrow and calculate and _know_ more than he did. Know of his price and didn’t lower it no matter the deal offered. “We are done here.”

                The Knife of Dunwall bit his tongue and didn’t wait another second; he left, before he found out how his neck felt within his palm. He was growing a fixation, earning to find out how was that like.

                Better than that, would be to prove him wrong. Or at least he told himself so.

                Maybe, he would get to do both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for getting through this chapter. I promise that at Rothwild’s, those two will bite a lot more.
> 
> Two chapters in the same day isn’t easy, I think I ended this up with 8k words written all today, I’m exhausted. Don’t expect it to happen often unless a chapter gets too big and I part them in two.
> 
> Thanks to Rose_Blue99 for being the first to comment! I love receiving feedback. I cannot thank her/him enough.


	4. A Crow's Caw.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corvo's POV.  
>  He take the decision either to leave Daud to chase Delilah on his own or actually engage on giving the Assassin aid he knows he doesn't have. A bit of background, to precede the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening my beautiful peoples.
> 
> To write this chapter was a dilemma, to be honest. I couldn’t choose what point of view to deliver this to you, since there are advantages and disadvantages to both, so I am here to ask you to forgive me. 
> 
> This work is mainly of Daud wooing, I mean, dealing with Witch!Corvo, so to the most essential pieces I will develop it through Daud’s point of view. This however doesn’t limit me from doing parts through Corvo’s eyes – Which, if you ask me, is the seasoning of meat. Makes a good steak absolutely divine. If only I knew how to write.
> 
> So why not dance with Corvo a little today? Let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you for hitting ‘next chapter’ so many times. Say hello on the comments! Ask me questions about whatever! About me, about this work, about something I might have not developed well or at all, about something you are curious or how is the weather! It is cold, I will let you know.

**_“A Crow’s Caw.”_ **

__  
“The crow cawed again overhead, and a strong sea wind came in and burst through the trees, making the green pine needles shake themselves all over the place. That sound always gave me goose bumps, the good kind. It was the sound an orphan governess hears in a book, before a mad woman sets the bed curtains on fire.”  
 **― April Genevieve Tucholke, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.**

 

 

                The night passed on, and he spent it awake, looking out the window of his tower for that progressing morning that would call for him.

                He had fiddled with noblemen and cutthroats, but never had he thought he would call attention of witches like Delilah’s kind or cutthroats of the assassin’s calibre.

                His worry kept him awake, but his mind dreamt and wandered.

                The night Daud left the Pub, he had a feeling the Assassin wouldn’t just heed to his words and leave. His eyes said more, and his Heart, bitter and resentful like he had never seen before, it seemed to beat with thorough pain as it spat words about the blood-clad man.

                Like always, he listened to what it had to share. He trusted his senses, the way the hounds winced and cowered in their cages, snarling under their breaths; the turmoil the man carried bothered even their slumber. The plague carriers, under the same impression, avoided his boots as if it was the plague itself. Rats were intelligent creatures and had even smarter noses.

A study on native Dunwall Rats and the Bull Rats; The first kind was timid, and didn’t have a taste for meat. Grains and bread sufficed; when starved or with no other option, it mingled with the invading species and joined the mob mentality unto biting, tearing and reducing to nothing a human being. Upon integrating its swarms, it bred; the conjoint of species wasn’t short in anything of the Bull Rat.

                That the local rats avoided his footsteps were enough sign for him that something wasn’t right. Like tide, he would come back, like the tides manifesting the Wrenhaven. And so he did.

                The Outsider vowed for him on his dreams, spoke of the witch hunt he put the Assassin to seek. It interested the Witch not what Assassins did or didn’t do, but he listened, intrigued for a man that wanted to stand up to Delilah. Like an Overseer, someday he could do the same to him simply because in his warped moral, they all fell into the same category. So he listened, more interested than he would like to admit.

                Corvo _despised_ Assassins. As if the plague wasn’t enough, the corpses floated more than they sank. Holes pierced through their chests, as if another dozen didn’t matter. If every remaining soul of Dunwall thought another corpse wouldn’t make a difference, there would be no city to cure.

                It was what it was becoming. A graveyard under the open skies, reeking of rot and disease and corruption that assaulted his nerves every time he took a breath. Sometimes, he was sure a few corpses opened their eyes to gaze at him. Or so he thought.

                Perhaps it was time to leave, wasn’t he so used to the broken city, he debated on following the river into the Isle; there would be the countryside, still not touched by the disease. The blood ox, wheat and cotton were still on high demand to the rest of the Isles. He had never been one for solitude, but perhaps it was time to move upriver. Away from plague, rot, Assassins and Overseers. It would be the wisest thing to do, he considered.

                Moving and taking what he could was one of the things that crossed his mind as he waited for dawn, watered coffee cold on the Serkonan’s hot fingers and hot skin and heated lips. He hated the Month of High Cold, and how it was announcing times of ice, frost and misery. Hearths, for who owned them. But for most of Gristol, it meant starvation, cold and misery. He would bathe the hounds and bring them to sleep with him, cover the windows with rugs and bring a small heater inside, if he could find a spare one. Rat, hound and crow would bundle up for the cold nights, hostilities for a moment, forgotten.

                But before it grew too cold, he still could warp himself to watch the morning slip in and with it, the first moments of warmth. His breath let out more clouds than his coffee. He could bear many things, but the beverage cold wasn’t one of them. From all the thoughts that passed by his mind, this one the only one that got him to move.

                His utility to the pub was obvious for the servants and owner but perhaps not so much for the clients. Morning started here before dawn, and like him the few workers that would cross the city to attend to their very excruciating and envied jobs, they all needed warm beverages. A smart business knew to suit and change itself to what it was needed. Here, the girls made an extra shift to tend to their newest, most numerous but cheapest public.

                Bread, heated canned meat, warm drinks, perfumed but watered coffee. The price of ox milk they couldn’t lower anymore, the gangs asked for sums too high of coin to let the gallons pass through the river. Some clients bought one cup, and each one put a part on their coffee, and from how common it was, in cups of whiskey doses, they sold fraction of a cup of milk by the fractioned price. Milk with tea or coffee subdued their hunger a little more. Lately there had been rip-offs of the traditional Serkonan Sausage crossing the city and its cheapest pubs. He convinced Farley to don’t acquire them; he and the rats could smell the plague on them. A month later, and pubs were closing as quickly as the plague managed to spread to servants, owners and clients both.

                He looked for things here. At times, lend a hand with the Weepers on the drainage galleries; he had a great aim with the crossbow. He served outside the ones with plague when the girls didn’t feel so brave. He served them water in empty brandy glasses instead of cups so they could be thrown out after being used. He helped them on the kitchen when it was crowded.

                At the beginning of the plague he broke in the pub for a place to sleep. Farley had found him sleeping behind the sacks of food, and released the hounds on him. He woke up and slipped into the dog’s bones, and with his new body, fangs and claws, he gave the Admiral a run for his coin. They ended up making a deal. He could sleep and eat here, if he could fight at the pits in his favour. Corvo didn’t like it, but was the most honest deal he could find in Dunwall at the time.

                He not only refilled his mug but made another gallon as the girls served over the counter. A nod of thanks from Cecelia and a smile from Lydia was enough payment. Not everything in this city needed to cost coin. His eyes more value on those things coin couldn’t thoroughly acquire.

                Once he had mowed charms in a grind, and went through the docks for endless nights after someone who had a piece of Tyvian Draft Horses. Be it boots of it, a piece of leather, blood or bone. Finally, he found harpsichord strings of its mane. He boiled them with the charms and filtered, repeating it over and over again until it was as thin as water, and gave it to Lydia.

                The headache on the following day was insufferable from the effort, but her back pains plagued her no more.

                Those things money couldn’t buy alone and were worth more than just blood and bone and sentiment. The sum of it and the effort itself, counted much more than the coins. The Void was lured in by fear, by tears – but by dedication as well. Faith. He wouldn’t preach like an Overseer, but he always found it easy to deliver something when he had some reason to do so. The Void shone brighter when his heart want it.

The Serkonan Witch carried two mugs outside; someone along himself would appreciate it.

                He _blinked_ unto the balcony outside the window, and bending himself he traipsed in like a cat. Slow steps, soundless over the windowsill and to the table against it, carefully stepping over papers and books as he carefully jumped to the floor, balancing the mugs and not minding the complaints the already awake inventor sent his way.

                “Those papers are the only copy I have of my report, if you could avoid coming through the window and stepping into everything, I would be eternally grateful.” His annoyance was clear even if his rant never quite sped up. He didn’t need to see into his heart to know he was tired. Perhaps instead of coffee, he should have brought him tea seasoned with a sleep dart.

                Nonetheless, the Serkonan pushed some books away so he could find room for himself on the table, and a place for the extra mug he brought. “Have you thought of what I asked you?”

                The simplicity in which he shared his piece of mind was enough to silence the inventor. The servants knew of his practices, and didn’t ask. But Piero, he was a whole different matter.

                Corvo had met him by the first time on the oddest of ways. The Serkonan was welcoming home an old friend. Geoff was back from searching the cure of the plague across the Isles, and he could use the drink and company.

The night, however, was bright with so many candles the mourning city brought to the footsteps of the Dunwall Tower. Not many people painted, but the city was full of skilled seamstresses, and tapestries were raised like banners in her name. Cameos of her figure were embroidered on silk; some so real, he at times thought the woman still lived and gazed at him through a window. The woman he had only seen from a distance never seemed so close and so human. He could smell the wrongness of her death. The Empress had died with a restless heart.

                Breaking into the white tower, he quickly found out, was not something easy and rather than luck, required talent. Or, as he noted, to know a certain group of people, or to carry a certain name.

                She would be laid down over her coffin, clothed and sewed and adorned, painted away from the blueish hue of an eternally sleeping Empress. She looked so pale, and the powders made her look less so. A lid of glass and she would be carried through the city before coming back, to rest a final time at the pyre.  Her clothes were white, and even on the dark, her being seemed to shimmer for whatever light the whiteness of her wear reflected it tenfold. The glass of her coffin made it a kaleidoscope.

 He had avoided her room, unwilling to bother the resting room of the Empress. It interested him a lot more the expensive tapestries that would give him some coin and the pieces of wear from higher officers and captains.

                Then a man came by, lean faced and with an unconscious twitch to the corner of his eyes. He shivered, but burned in fever. His glasses, balanced on the tip of his nose seemed to be on the edge of slipping and falling but they never did it. Corvo seemed to feel him crossing the hall, hear through the wall his whispers. For some reason, it lulled the infiltrator closer.

                It was how he met Piero, and the man sure was interesting to watch working. He whispered to himself, no different from the insane and plagued on the outskirts of slums; for a moment, he thought he would cough up blood, but it never happened. He unbuttoned her shirt just by the lower half. Then the undershirt, and with a scalpel that didn’t shake, unlike his hands, he cut through her corset and underdress to her sewed up ribcage.

                That scalpel almost hit the Serkonan when he leaned over in curiosity, but despite the man’s shame and awkwardness and terror, Corvo had hushed him into being quiet, and so he did. The inventor distracted himself; somewhat relieved on the same amount he seemed terrified. Now someone could hear his mad but genial muttering and plans and how he led his scientific mind into following an inspiration out of any realm of possibility.

                He was a Witch, of chemicals and formulas, surgeries and machinery. Somewhere, deep on his mind, he must have concluded on the following moments they were similar. Perhaps, his curiosity void of disgust was the winning argument on his mind. For Corvo, it had been listening to his rambles and his ideas that he could see Piero stood above the mortal man.

                He watched the door as Piero cut open a dead Empress on the dark. He gave Corvo the Empress’ heart to hold as he sewed her back up whole, and carefully dressed the woman, and was careful even if spastic to clean whatever sign of someone touching her coffin.

                At the end, he had been too absorbed by his words of lightening, essence and the Void to don’t resist the temptation and walk with him back to his home. Apparently having been a member of the Academy served as free passage to everyplace regarding corpses, even if he didn’t reside at the Academy anymore, but at an abandoned apartment instead. He fixed machines in exchange of a meal and yet, found time and resources to invest on his dreams; even more when they spoke of the Void a dead heart.

                The inventor had put tears and sweat and desperation with bouts of joy and anxiety on his work. They talked, as they waited for the flesh to soften out of what he called _rigor mortis._ Only then, he began to work. But by the following morning, the result did beat before the morning sun and silence reigned as it spoke, and the two of them listened.

                Corvo, later that day, would have a lot to apologise to Geoff, he hadn’t been there to greet his return. Instead, he had found a corner for himself to sleep after such a night of inventions and _Void-Inspired Natural Philosophy_. To Piero, seemed not to matter in what hands the Heart would fall, but he feared its oddness and heresy being traced back to him. Piero, unlike other Philosophers, seemed to don’t really mind being known or not, but rather if what he created could have some use and be given its deserving importance.

                This, he said on that tired night, would silence the man in the dark for a while, and was done for that purpose.

                The Heart hushed secrets no man in Dunwall would bother to hear. If they did, perhaps they would be driven mad by not understanding it fully. How it held the essence of a woman wrongfully murdered, and how it came to be through electricity trapped from the sky. How the clockwork spun and spun and beat and even quiet, wouldn’t ever cool down. He gave it to him, to deliver it to the Leviathan who requested it. And Corvo did so, on his next dream, he freed Piero of its whispers and on the basket of an altar he found floating on the Void, near the wandering memories and flashes of existence of the Tower he resided, amongst buoys and another pieces of his reality twisted in dream, he put the Heart to rest there.

                But every time he focused on the Void to blink away, it was there. His talents connected him to the Void enough he came to hear it, on a delicate, wandering, calm, feminine voice.

                Piero’s gift became another of his talents, and Jessamine, a woman he hadn’t met while she lived; now they were acquainted through her death. He watched patrons and on the Void she would talk, and he would hear. Her exasperation was his; her undeath was his to live through.

                Havelock needed a mechanic on a nearly deserted district. Now he was no longer an Admiral, his attention was fully on the pub and haunted by his wanderlust he found problems once dismissed and unnoticed. Piero fit in like a glove, and made the storeroom of mechanical parts his workshop, and Witch and inventor fit in well. By the river the inventor came to understand much more of the being that gave him ideas, or that he saw floating on the blue emptiness. His talents were unmystified, and his theories proven by practice.

                Corvo found someone with different talents than his own, but so remarkably complex he came to learn from him as well. He came to hear his dreams, heed to his requests, share his opinion; the seamstress and the traveller, one muttering of fantastic landscapes and intricate designs, that the other would come to deliver through talented hands, used to a fine craft that would bring into the word such a dream. At times, Corvo was his seamstress. At others, it was Piero’s turn to craft.

                He understood more of Natural Philosophy than he relied in Corvo’s own talents. It only seemed to hone what he would create without it. It was a whisper, a quiet blow of air that spread the flames from a match into a full blown arson. Still, no one knew as much of the Witch than him. If he disappeared by the hands of an Assassin, Delilah or simply the odds, he would be the first to notice he disappeared. Even if it took a while.

                Thus, if there was someone he ought to share the burden of choosing his next course of action, he would name Piero and no one else.

                “I have thought, yes.” He said, as he reached for his mug of coffee and warped his shaky fingers around the warm metal of the can turned mug. Corvo followed the pattern, drinking up a little as his features wrinkled at the flavour; rhythmically, the inventor did the same. The taste didn’t let either of them forget. _Watered._  “It is a risk either way, you said.”

                He either handed Daud away to Delilah, and made himself known for her – She would see his worth.

 By all means he tried to avoid her attention, aware of her existence and catching on the wind fleeting whispers, he had gathered proof, done his research much before Daud came by. He kept an ear out, just to don’t be caught off guard. Her intention was still a mystery, but the menace she stood was alive on his mind. The Outsider favoured her greatly, on the same way he cared not for what came to be; one thing was certain, he hardly put himself on pair with her, but maybe he would find room in coven her for himself if he came with the information on the Knife of Dunwall and his plans.

Either that, or she would kill him after he turned in the Assassin. If she didn’t, on his way back to Dunwall he would find the Assassin’s blade on his neck as he slept. He and his kind would hunt him and manhunt was their expertise.

                It was the same risk of working with Daud. The Assassin could get rid of him once he wore out his use. He seemed so _different_ from what the rumours said. No poster had his eyes so bright, like a cornered hound; wary but starving to bite. He didn’t trust Corvo, neither had he pretended to. He was out of his ambient, dealing with something he admittedly didn’t know, and he reeked of that edge; plead or demand, bend to the Witch’s whims or demand it through force.

                Corvo was resourceful, but he didn’t think he was on pair with Daud either. His daze of wariness and wonder towards the Witch would end - and then the knife. If not him, then Delilah would be his end for helping Daud into poking into her affairs.

                From what it sounded like, and who came to request his aid, he could only assume Delilah’s head was wanted. In whatever side of the coin, so would his unless he left Daud to chase a Whaler ship as he left past the blockade with the clothes he wore. A whole night hadn’t been enough to figure out what to do.

                The moment Daud walked in, with his boots full of flood water and with it, the scent of ruin and dismay, sword and scythe in each hand; he knew his time of peace was gone. Not unlike the plague, he was chaos; to see him walking into the pub was breath-taking. He could see his shadows stretching behind him, light reflected on his clothes, made his figure over the floorboards look red. He could have seen it in his cards and it couldn’t be any truer.

 Walked in _Death_ ; at his feet laid the heads of the couple from the Lovers’ card. All that could be, will be no more. Scythe and sword, to harvest and fight at the very end of everything. Red like blood, of distress, and the pale blue of his eyes that read resolve – Blue often meant there was nothing he could do, it was written on the stars.

                He had been insufferable. Unaware of the grounds he stepped on, unaware of that thing called courtesy and respect, unaware of what his arrival meant. The Knife of Dunwall was both a pleasure and a pain to handle. He knew nothing, and he reeked of fear. It was a dangerous game, to corner a viper and make it wait and make it chase and twist. But it was also fun.

                For the moment he had been there, every second had been unnerving but a joy to have him around. See him knowing so little and still, wanting to jump into this Witch hunt just because the Outsider told him so; he would give the young man in the Void what he craved the most. He would set the world in further fire and tear down towers for the sake of the spectacle. If that wasn’t interesting, on the same amount as fearsome and also enthralling, he wasn’t sure what was.

                Corvo wanted to watch, with the same interest of the Outsider if only he wasn’t directly affected by it. Just a plebeian enjoying the show, he wanted to chase and see the world being unfurled within the Assasssin’s hands and see it burn; being around him _burned_ but amazed.

                Some part of him that he must have forgotten on the Void had been brewed, distilled, and the marked man was setting it on fire. It was hard to breathe around the fumes, made Corvo unusually bold and willing to follow, the stench of death was disgusting but it was where the thrill was at. He lit up the worse of the Serkonan, ruined his patience, and he couldn’t lie; He feared the Assassin, in a myriad of ways he didn’t understand. He antagonised killer. He wanted to give him a hard time for the sake of it. He wanted to play with fire.

                To think he had done his best to remain hidden and unnoticed; he had left Vera’s tutelage for her liking for spreading pain and distress was entertaining and he was beginning to like it. Even such small things had consequences and he wasn’t free of them. The worse thing of it was that he hadn’t minded it in the slightest; Corvo had liked to spread rumours amongst the nobles and have the whipped servant avenged. He had crossed and acted through the city in that lust, looking for such excuses for practicing what he knew.

                He had sailed away to be forgotten and to forget. He learnt things from the Isles, from the Tyvians whom brewed potions based on their distilled drinks, from Morley where the women sang to storms, and remained in  Serkonos for a longer while; to read into the habits and things the housewives did and called magic, tricks that he had seen through his childhood but never paid mind. Those charms never failed.

 On Serkonos’ coast, ships and sailors everyday came from Pandyssia and had something to tell or share. From them, he learnt of the runes and markings he put on his body. He learnt transmutation from a descendant of a Pandyssian slave. He learn that the tides and the moonlight with the right investment, couldn’t turn lead into gold but come make bones become iron, and ash into black stone.

                Back to Dunwall, the heart of an Empire, the polo of opportunity, he returned to see a known Pandyssian plague roaming the cobblestones. If he knew, he wouldn’t have returned.

                Sure it had been disheartening but not enough to encourage the worse from him. Nothing had yet brought that youthful and chaotic side of him. Nothing until Daud came by. He wanted to avoid him like the plague; yet, it interested and worried him the prospect of dealing with the Assassin. He was waiting for a sign, anything else saying to leave and don’t meet the man at the Slaughterhouse.

                Piero, unsurprisingly, disappointed. “Isn’t it better to talk with a killer instead of a Witch? At least you know that the worse he can do is to, well, kill you.”

                Corvo sighed a little into his coffee, but nodded a little to the inventor. “That much is true.”

                It wasn’t true. Assassins’ didn’t have just that; the gait of the Knife of Dunwall wasn’t of someone whose worse was just a killing blow. He had much more, he got under the Witch’s skin like the plague, he reeked of menace and that scent hadn’t left his nose just yet.

               But he was a Witch. And the mystery of his actions was due the fact his guts and heart decided for him. He put the empty cup close to Piero’s, and stretched his arms over his own head, until he could hear bones creaking under the pressure – a moment after and he was doing his catwalk over the desk to the window, much to Piero’s annoyance and groan of displeasure.

               “Is that all, Corvo?” The inventor asked, annoyed but also tapping his fingers on the desk. He was anxious, but seemed to trust the Witch’s resilience more than Corvo himself, for the Serkonan wasn’t confident this was the wisest plan; but he sure was pleased, for some reason. He was thrilled.

               “Yes. Thank you.” If the inventor expected a promise that he would come back or a plan in case he didn’t, then he supposed he disappointed as well. There wasn’t another plan in case things went wrong. He only had one life to bet, his.

               The Witch had left it all ready by the Tower. The belts and apparel he put under and over his dark blue coat weighted the fabric, made it glue to his skin. He carried as many bone charms he could strap to his person. His crossbow was loaded and against his hip. He didn’t carry a sword.

               Over his shoulders he tied the most important item; a cloak, as dark as his overcoat, and almost as blue in its glossy colour.

               He had heard from Vera how the rats before the plague used to bite, until she sat down to feed them; only then, she began to understand them and their little minds, full of hunger and simple needs. From her, he learnt to do the same. Sit with the swarm and scramble food around him, within his palm, and feel the whiskers brush but not give a single bite. Have it passed from paw to paw, ear to ear, that he was no different from them.  When the plague arrived, he did it no more, but passed on to the hagfish, swam with them and passed from creature to creature, wore their bodies like his own, delicately and gently so when he left, the creature lived with a liking for him.

               During the cold nights, he brought the hounds to sleep to his bed and took their fleas out with salves and herbs. Now, Overseer hounds wagged their tails on the street, having never met him before, but it was on his _scent_ that they were no different; they were both hounds.

               Possession, that slowly became more. Slowly, there were more of those beasts that he learnt, and brought closer to him; he refined his art, with patience and time, until he swapped the need to find a creature to host him for something else. He caught birds of the same kind, and while they squirmed he pulled out enough feathers before letting them go, able to fly and live still. He could have killed the creatures, but he truly grew fond of them, brought by the ships that came from the countryside, coming down the river to Dunwall, so eat from his hand. He sewed their feathers with golden threat and each loop was touched by a little bit of his blood.

                It took weeks before he was finished and put it to dry on the sun. It had been his first craft of the sort, and perhaps still his favourite.

               Now, wrapping it around his shoulders, tying securely, he locked the door to his tower and adjusted the plumes and feathers, they didn’t bother his neck and jaw anymore. It used to tickle, redden, but now his second skin ruffled like his hair on the cold breeze. He took a deep breath and checked if everything was secure and on the pockets they should be.

               With a last look back, he prayed under his breath. Witches and Assassins couldn’t _that_ different. But again, if they weren’t, it wouldn’t be so intriguing. And he wouldn’t be going in the first place. He would be playing it smart and safe.

               He ran the walkways, boots sounding against the metal until the sound was replaced a step before the end by a ruffle of feather and the beat of wings, making a turn over the river to travel it down.

                A crow could find a slaughterhouse with its eyes closed. It always had a curious liking for chasing trails of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This admittedly took me forever to write. I had to rewrite it 3 times and I am still not satisfied. Still, it’s best to deliver something instead of nothing.
> 
> Here there is a little background and things from Corvo’s point of view. He is as intrigued and wary by Daud as the other way around. It was very hard for me to squeeze as much information as I could here without making it excruciatingly boring. I have no idea if I succeeded or not, but if it was unpleasant and you let me know, I will try to do it again. Writer’s block caught me in this chapter. 
> 
> The chapter’s title is from a web book I find very interesting, it as a whole suits Dishonored and its theme. I don’t make it justice most of the time, but here is something. I hope to show more of what I plan for this whole fanfic on the next chapter. Filler chapters are awful to write and I bet it’s a bit boring to read but without them, I can’t build plot. I like to reveal important information along important parts, but sadly fillers are still necessary. They both build plot and mood.
> 
> So here we had a bit of Piero, a bit of Corvo, a bit of everything to set the next chapter I will post tomorrow or in a couple days.
> 
> Stay tuned, leave a comment, make someone (me) happy to encourage continuing and getting better at this.


	5. Chemistry of Fear and Attraction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud and Corvo go to the Rothwild Slaughterhouse. Their differences bring up inevitable conflict.  
> Serkonans however, are creatures of hot blood and chaos. And they revel of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally! The Slaughterhouse.
> 
> No more dancing around with the characters, no more dwelling, no more filling. We finally get to go to that damned Slaughterhouse. I have been waiting for this more than you, I’M SURE.
> 
> No more spoiling or long intros. Open your mind and experience chaos.
> 
> Beware: Long ass chapter.

**_“Chemistry of Fear and Attraction.”_ **

 

                He thought he had forgotten most of Serkonos by now.

                Certainly after his skills bought his freedom, and he no longer worked for the man that stole him from home to cut throats for a living, he did return to Serkonos, and it hadn’t changed in the slightest.

                There was no rule or limit to the cheap constructions of the commonwealth, and neighbours would find amongst themselves their most trustworthy friends and close enemies as well. Family feuds, cheap wine; the scraps from the wooden barrels, mixed with water, and sold to the workers  - used to cloud the judgement of cheap whores; It was no less beautiful and diverse than he remembered. He dared to say even more now he had the eyes to appreciate it.

                The people had a very high percentage of beauty - with the absurd exceptions of course – but Daud could appreciate that his homeland that never actually had been a home, it was beautiful and colourful. It littered its lands with all colours, the most diverse at people’s skin. Gristol only had such colours imported. The women worked as hard as any men, and men, they argued as loud as the women. Wine was expensive, but the houses welcomed visitors with open doors and a feast; all one could drink and more, all one could eat and more.

                It had many problems, certainly. But through the hard life, the people made sure to throw colour at and for everything. Was hard, but certainly not too boring. And those who never visited Serkonos, ended up dreaming through their whole lives to someday set foot on that land. Those who had visited felt an intense longing to someday go back.

                Daud was from there. He had enjoyed his stay, but hadn’t found the flavour of home there. Not on his own. But someday he wished he could go back too. Maybe he was indeed becoming old and predictable and abominably _boring._

                But there in Serkonos he would have such sights like the one before his eyes often. It was so true to the roots, that he thought, perhaps, he could taste the bright herbs and weeds from the sunny Isle right now.

                He indeed could, for not only he looked Serkonan, walked Serkonan, Corvo also had the unmistaken _perfume_ of a Serkonan. The men of the isle used vibrant flavours, which he could recall from the top of his mind from how remarkable it had been. Pomegranate, orange, rosemary and basil.

                This was no good, he noted. The butchers would smell him from a mile away, assuming the whale oil and its fumes hadn’t killed their noses. It wasn’t the only problem he could see, if it was only that, throwing the Witch on the river would have been easy, too easy in fact. The worse yet was his looks.

                His long hair was loose and clean, it waved and slithered from the slightest breeze as if it was underwater; turn his head too fast and he would see nothing but coffee coloured hair. His attire had more belts and pockets and straps he thought was possible. Those pockets weighted the belts; his hips alone were heavy from so much he carried trapped to his belt and he could bet, a step and he would _tinkle_ like a damned bell from so much metal, pouches and bolts, for a small crossbow he could see also hanging by his hip.

                So terribly Serkonan. Reminded him of the dancers, with their skirts translucent like veils, embroidered in coins and bells and without it, the songs they danced would be empty without the litany of bells and tiny metallic sounds their bodies would produce. It was mesmerising, and enchanted Lords and plebeians from all across the Isles. It had enchanted Daud.

                Now though, he wanted to strangle the Witch with his own apparel. The guards _on Tyvia_ would hear him approaching. He trained Assassins, it was his career. This was an offense. He was not going anywhere with the Serkonan _dancer_.

                “You didn’t forget anything, did you?” It was the reply the Witch did, not bothering to look up from what his hands were creating. The irony. “Whatever I forgot I am sure you brought three spare.”

                All that, he noticed, but not a sword. Nowhere could he find a sword on him, and Daud was doing his best to find it. The Witch was sitting on a handrail, one Daud wouldn’t support his hand even if his life depended on it from how rusty it seemed, but the other seemed to don’t think of it, ankles supported on the bars parallel to the rail, fingers sewing and working.

                Black nails held a thin needle that worked even without being the centre of the other’s attention. Slowly but thoughtfully, it sewed in a golden thread into parts of dark leather, slowly tying the cut edges of the leather into rounded, comfortable corners. There were nails, fresh and clean, dug in four opposite corners of an almost fully circular whale bone. Those nails held the cracked bone piece on a single item, connected and bound in leather being finished.

                He didn’t need to walk any closer to see its intricate design, dug into bone in depth. A circle, charted within runes and symbols he didn’t know, but the circular panel clearly had some meaning he never found out. Despite the differences from each tailoring and design, they were almost the same. He had passed it to paper once and it wasn’t unknown to the Academy the existence of this design. Was an old mystery on their library, deemed heresy by the Abbey, but for him, the rune etched above the chart would shine, and would burn in his palm and vanish into ash. He would feel stronger, a bit closer to the Void, and it was what he needed from it.

                To see his Witch sewing up the pieces, nearing completion, was both intriguing as it made him want to turn his gaze away. Seeing how they were made would ruin the mystery on his mind that he built around it. Sometimes was better to don’t know.

                “Took you long enough to arrive. The strike already began. To get into the Slaughterhouse by the front door, you need a time card; as soon as the strike began, the butchers and the Watch began taking them from the rioting workers.” He said, stealing Daud’s attention from the rune he turned and sewed on his hands.

                Despite probably _tinkling_ at every step, he had sharp ears, that much Daud could give him. Close to the setting sun, his dark blue coat seemed whiskey coloured under the light, and the cloak of plumes he wore over his shoulders shared the hue, matching his skin. It was an exuberant sight, despite being too extravagant for an infiltration. Bothered him a lot that he didn’t have a sword with him; bothered him greatly in fact. But alas, wasn’t the only thing that bothered him.

                He wasn’t an Assassin and he wondered what the man even did here in the first place, since infiltrating and stealing information was a spy’s or an assassin’s business. He couldn’t believe he had been talked into complying with this. He didn’t want to escort a civilian into a heavily armed slaughterhouse; Witch or not.

                The small bit of information was decent, though. He usually sent men to scout the place he went before, after and while he explored. He came alone however. If he died because of a Witch, was better that he didn’t bring anyone to die with him. This entire scenery was unthinkable, _laughable_. The Knife of Dunwall, consorting with a Witch to find more about another Witch. Definitely wasn’t his craft.

                The Witch in question carefully cut the golden thread with his teeth after knotting it tightly, and inspected his work carefully, the needle caught between his teeth like a viper’s tongue, peeking out and scenting his project. It was a rune indeed, delicate unlike most of what he found around Dunwall. From a professional of the craft, he dared to say.

                He watched in silence his fingers take the needle again to pierce his own thumb, and to press the drop of blood against the cleanly brushed whalebone. His darker lips touched the mark softly, and hooded eyes looked far and close.

                It was almost a song, the one that runes whispered, the whalesong they resonated from the depths of the world; he could bet it was the same saltwater melody that those lips spelled, and pressed against the bone gently. A language he didn’t know, but perhaps would sound familiar to a Leviathan. The blood cooled and darkened into the crevice of the carved bone, and became ink; painting every carved edge in depth, red and dripping no more.

                Only then, when his lips parted from the rune, he could feel his heart picking up pace. A pressure on his ears, as if he fell from a too high building, or if he swam too deeply into the ocean. It clogged his ears and his heart beat faster as it buzzed on his ear. It was the sound of whalesong.

                “You must collect these.” He said after a brief while, and Daud could only watch, bewildered and a bit dazed from seeing something he was sure he was never meant to see. Surreal to the very end. The Witch handed him the rune and he stiffly held it on his left hand; it was warm within his palm, very warm. And all that work was gone as it became ashes and his mark burned bright.

                So did the Witch, every mark, rune, pattern and tattoo under his clothes shining with a mirroring cool light, all the way into his eyes – and in the same way they lit up, they went back to the dark colour of before.

                “I never asked your name.” It dawned on him after a very long while, and it hit him with the stupidity of it. He had never asked. He had always been _his Witch_ on his mind, something to loathe and fear and admonish like an Overseer forsaking the thought of a heretic so open and proud of it. He hadn’t bothered to ask. The Whalers close enough from him to know what was going on used the same terminology. There were two Witches to mind. Delilah, and this one creature.

                “Corvo.” The Witch said, and it made Daud frown where he stood. He was Serkonan after all; he spoke the Serkonan main dialect. “I meant your _real_ name.”

                Vipers from the countryside would blink slowly, and one tenacious enough could watch the way their eyelid, white and side-tracked, would slowly cover their eyes and it would roll just as slowly; enough to be able to see it rolling back as the eyelid was still retreating.

                Corvo blinked on the same slow disdain of someone that heard this same thing at least a hundred times.

                “Just tell me when you are ready to leave.” He said, short, dry, terribly annoyed, as he carefully put the needle inside a piece of a piece of old newspaper, wrapping it and tucking it into a pouch.

                 Then, his black nails adjusted the cloak from around his shoulders and his ankles, the only thing balancing him on the handrail, slowly lifted from the bar – his body slowly leaned back, picking up speed to fall from the balcony.

                 An exotic way to transverse away, he thought. But instead of his pale blue light, from him what he saw as only golden speckles of dust and ash, and from that small cloud, arms stretched into black wings, and a black bird flew from it, quiet and discreet and flying away, into a wide curve from the alleyway towards the opposite rooftop.

                 “I _hate_ witches.” He mumbled to himself, on a fashion Billie would say that revealed his old age no matter how much he tried to hide it; sounding old or not, he walked to the edge of the balcony before transversing to the opposite roof.

                 He didn’t follow the black bird, but he was constantly watched and often predicted. He entered a building to evade an arc pylon, and up the staircase, there would be the bird; by a windowsill in his judging silence.

                 It had an interest for everything that moved. It watched the guard; it peaked at a book lying around and tilted its head to read _._ Still the Witch, obviously. Nothing but the Outsider could share this ability of being interested enough to watch, but not interested enough to keep a close eye to his every step.

                 Sometimes it _talked_ , and the first time he heard it from the crow, it caught him off guard fully. Its voice came from everywhere and nowhere, and while deeper, it still was the Witch’s, it still had a touch of Serkonan as if it would pass through the man’s lips and not a beak. _“The great ships have stopped bring their hauls.”_

                 Caught him off guard at first, and received a glare the Assassin burnt towards the bird whose black eyes didn’t cower at the scowl. He tapped his beak against a flask of elixir, left behind from someone from the Watch, and flew off to turn around a coin left in the windowsill. And turn it around again. And around. And around. A bird’s attention span, it seemed; even if within those feathers there was a man.

                 It seemed no one else could listen to it either, as from the rooftops he spooked of a boat behind the Watch’s Outpost, and had Daud’s unconscious attention to wherever he flew.

                 Wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought. Was almost _useful_ , to hear the small things the crow would utter. Perhaps it was for he hadn’t tired of him yet. When he talked to the worker from the boat, the crow watched from the edge of the boat. Tilting its small head, listening.

                 Most of the time, he wasn’t there as he progressed to the Yard. He liked to take his time. Time was an expensive thing, he learnt, something he didn’t always have; but spending it smartly saved him from unnecessary bullets and lately, kept his sword dry and his hands cleaner.

                 He wondered what he was becoming, spending so much reading through notes of the Watch after shift hours and watching maps hanged by the wall. He wasn’t afraid of killing; he just was tired of it. He had watched piles of corpse grow before him and the consequences of it – he could know of those consequences fully, and he knew he wouldn’t have changed his way from the path he chose. The Knife of Dunwall wouldn’t have done it differently, he had specialised himself in this trade; lives for favour and coin. Changing of what grew to be his expertise seemed too much trouble.

                 Until the stench of the chaos he caused was too much and this kingdom of terror was a lot too unruly, even for those who were emperors of it.

                 Was too late for repentance, but he could try to move things, the most his two hands could weave to find something he could do to set things even. A little bit back on tracks. Something. Daud was on this hunt blindly for the Outsider, he learnt, liked to tug at the strings of where should be his heart. He would find something worthwhile on this hunt. Perhaps, something only _he_ could do, ironically.

                 It sounded like the schemes of the Leviathan, whom enjoyed his shows grand and embedded on drama and controversy and here he was, watching for long minutes the movement of the guards, their pace, just so he could catch a window to pass by.

                 The crow was a mostly silent and unhurrying presence. Sometimes he watched with Daud; at others, he brought notes. One, he noted, had the combination of the safe of the Watch’s Officer. He wouldn’t be thanking the bird anytime soon, but as he put a heavy bar of gold on the inner pocket of his vest, it sure was a nice bonus to this run. An extra pair of eyes did have their worth. He spoke of the workers by the stills of whale oil that had been arrested for civil unrest and spoke of a bone charm by the sewers, and a rune that stood at a cargo entrance, up above the yard.

                  Had its uses, he would admit to that. He didn’t like it, but he grew to expect a voice to fill the dark with a small remark about something, _anything._ It reminded him to keep moving.

                  Through one of these cargo entrances, he climbed the crane through by its chain and entered. He wasn’t as agile as he thought he still was and the front entrance didn’t seem as discreet, and he wasn’t willing to figure out his chances at a brawl he didn’t want to use his sword for.

                  Within, the crow stayed silent for a moment too long, almost forlorn, mourning, before adding. _“Can you hear it too? Crying out in the dark? Listen – I can hear it’s every thought.”_

                  Whom he spoke of could have been everything and anything. It could have been the workers, the Weepers, the Leviathans, far away into the ocean depths. He forgot the comment for a moment, and paid mind to the crow’s observation about the crates of live cargo, towards Tyvia. He paid mind to when he spoke of a charm between the carcass’ ribs, and each moment, the bird’s voice grew quieter.

                  And indeed, the cause was a whale.

                  When he heard them singing from atop the whaling ships, he had always thought they didn’t survive long once they were at the slaughterhouse. The beast couldn’t survive having its chest torn open, and have tubes prodded within to harvest its sacred, very expensive oil that powered the city and why not, an Empire as well, buried neck deep and breathing into whale oil and its fumes.

                  He just found out that they could, and it revolved on his stomach. It bellowed, singing mournfully and at times, thrashing against the chains that held it in place. The lack of water had dried its thick, but delicate skin. It bled from the mouth, from its gums and between its teeth to cascade slowly into the ducts under; a tear open underneath its chest to give sight to its insides, to give aid when attaching the tubes to the blubber as it still breathed, bled on the same slow pace. It breathed still, in slow, pained huffs of air.

                 It unnerved to see, but whatever he must be listening, the Witch had been listening far longer, and louder. It was on his eyes, when he landed on the ledge and he watched – but didn’t see just the bleeding pores of the Leviathan. Saw further, saw into the creature as feathers became shadow and eventually man, and even some distance away, he could see his mind revolving through it.

                 Daud saw it coming. But gesturing wasn’t enough if the Witch wouldn’t look to his direction.

                 Under his gaze, a swarm of rats gave the opening he was too impatient and restless to wait for. The swarm quickly caught the sight and scent of the prey they liked best. _Alive and kicking_. And he had seen it happening before, but never with so much detail. The saw scared them not, and some jumped straight to the spinning, dented blade. It didn’t matter. They bit through clothes into ankles, and a gutting sword and saw could only take so many rodents in a second.

                The sword seemed more merciful than the plague the rats would pass on, but as other butchers came to thin the swarm, he knew it would also not be enough to hold them back. His eyes went back to Corvo, whom surprisingly enough, didn’t tinkle and tick all the way as he moved. Again, was hard to listen from over the swarm and the chaos it delivered. He had the quick feet of a Serkonan thief, soundless and light like a starved urchin.

                But wouldn’t be enough. He put one tank in place but on the way to the second, the butchers were already chasing the source of the swarm, an open door, anything, no matter the corner they must have sprung from, and from afar, the butcher found an intruder that wasn’t a rat.

                He took action then, almost on instinct. Transversing to behind the butcher that noticed the Witch, he quickly warped an arm around his neck; it required all his strength to remain on his feet as the man reached for him, tried to shake him off but Daud caught him off guard. His breath was running down quickly, making his movements erratic; but not fast enough as another butcher, he could see from beneath the whale, stomped his way quickly towards the Witch.

                Corvo wouldn’t notice, and he truly didn’t. Time held in that second, as he made his choice and moved enough to point his wristbow from over the butcher’s shoulder to fire a sleep dart at the other, who fell on his tracks not a second too late.

                A second that he didn’t have to spare, for it was more than enough for his hold to get lighter, and the next thing he felt was a skull against his nose, strong enough to make him trample back, smelling blood and seeing red. It was too much to ask for things to go cleaner.

                The pain dug into his skull, he knew something broke in there, and his vision cleared nowhere enough to see the saw arriving enough to transverse away in time. He raised his sword to blind the blade against the spinning, dented blade, just enough to ruin his sword on a shower of sparkles and to kick the butcher away. It came like nature to his bloodstained vision, to step forward when the other stepped back; swordsmanship was a dance that from wrong steps, led a blade before he even knew it.

                His blade dug under the man’s chin, carotid artery and windpipe hissing as it tainted his vision further and after the body sounded against the floor, he could clear his vision a little with the back of his hand.

                Too much for cleaner hands, too much for making things _righter,_ or at least less wrong. He was no different from a foaming hound as he transversed away from the body to the Witch. Witch or not, he hadn’t seen novices doing the same mistake. He had never seen someone so inexperienced and bold.

                _Daud hated witches so much._

                The Knife arrived the moment the song stopped, a lever that activated the circuits enough to hold the beast stiff for a moment, intensity amplified, and a second later, limp and dead. He didn’t give the Witch time to breathe free from the spell of its singing, not a second to clear his head, before the back of his hand hit his cheek with enough force to throw him back.

                “To the Void with you.” The Assassin swore, and the Witch’s stumbled back granted him a grip of his neck to hold him as he transversed to the next door. Within, the staircase was mostly blocked and on the dark, only spare machinery could be seen. He didn’t think twice before he shoved the Witch in, letting go of his neck. It was just clear enough to see the white of his eyes as he was fell to the floor. He had seen noblewomen with more steadiness their feet. He wasn’t a fighter, he wasn’t an infiltrator, he was _nothing_ that belonged in a slaughterhouse.

                “You will stay here until I’m done.” He spat, before closing the door and with the hilt of his now ruined sword, he slammed down the handle until it fell off and he could breathe, finally.

                Too much for cleaner hands. Must be too much to ask. He had followed a novice into a slaughterhouse. Sure whatever daze being around the creature, that wonder for creatures of the depth, it ended here, before his eyes. It had been enough to blind him to the facts.

                Fact was, he wasn’t prepared for a fight. Fact was, he couldn’t even look both ways before jumping into trouble. Fact was, he _hated_ Witches. Witches whom didn’t think, and were dumb enough to end at the spike of the Overseers all the time, and were just as blind as the zealots themselves; they relied on magic and belief instead of practice and preparation. His pockets must be full of feathers and cotton. He had no use for apparel or even a crossbow if he couldn’t think before jumping in.

                He focused just enough to summon an Assassin. The Knife had put Thomas on hold, and when he showed up before him with a short bow, he gestured to the door. “Make sure it doesn’t open before I’m back.”

                The rest was simpler in comparison. He had enough determination and enough blood on his eyes to move on. To think, he thought he was going to bleed all the blood he had in his body from his nose. As if it hadn’t been broken enough times through his life, still it managed to amaze and make him lightheaded from how much it bled. A small bit of cloth and a nearby sink was all he could do for now as he finished what he was here to do.

                Abigail Ames wasn’t the image of selflessness he expected from the head of a strike. At least Rothwild was openly stubborn and filthy. Both unconscious, he took the man to the interrogation room, strapping him up and discounting the piled up anger to make the man wake up already foaming from electricity.

                He had always preferred to draw information from men like him. Soon enough, the information of the ship came slowly in. With it, a name, and was all he needed as he repeated it on his mind over and over again. Barrister Arnold Timsh had been the owner of the ship, and sold to forget a painter he took for lover.  A woman that had the Outsider’s attention and had a funny air about, like pride; she whom crawled under the Barrister’s skin, like a rat into his mind, until he could think of nothing else.

                Daud could see it was a side effect of their witchcraft.

                The Barrister either broke from the witchcraft or she let go of him, and he got rid of the ship. Anyone wiser than Daud would have done it; warded off someone close upon knowing it was a Witch. So clearly influential, crawling into his head to haunt the night he hadn’t slept, being the rush of adrenaline his soul seemed to grow hooked and still _afraid_ of. The obvious chemistry of attraction and fear that made people, poor or rich, puppets under the blackened fingers of Witches. Willing to accept whatever maddened plot from the top of their minds; being it unknown their true reasons.

                He was just so bad, he knew it. He needed to be shaken to realise how blind he turned. An old man, enchanted by bright tricks and into doing what he _wouldn’t_ do for an apprentice.

                But it came back to his mind the words of the crow, about a crate towards Tyvia. There had been uses to keeping the bird close, but it wasn’t worth the price.

                Nonetheless, Daud took two sleep darts from his wristbow and one by one stabbed them to the man’s neck. It was enough to send him unconscious the beginning of the way, however, not through the entire trip. Anymore of the substance would stop his heart, thus he didn’t have more to consider before hauling his body over his shoulder and making his way, transversal after transversal, to dump him on the crate and hammer with the hilt of his sword nail after nail the lid closed.

                The way back gave him time to think; not much, but enough.

                As he put his face under the water from the sink at the locker room, and closed his eyes a little at the gelid sensation, holding his breath and calculating it, eventually it slowed down. Along with it, his heartbeats were no longer clear on his ears, and he could just take his gloves off and cup his hands to drink from the sink.

                Perhaps - a mouse on the back of his head would nip – he had overreacted. Just perhaps.

                It was a cruel world but not everyone took what he did as a living. Everyone could be a killer, but it didn’t mean everyone was. He could have handled it differently, he knew he could have.

                Things had happened as they had for he let them flee of his control, and he knew it. He could be the novice he was swearing and comparing to the Witch in his mind. It was a _novice_ thing to panic and throw himself into the middle of the fight without a plan. Two sleep darks would have solved the issue. Bending time would have solved the issue. He was an Assassin that grew old, soft and didn’t want to kill. The least he could do was to assume the consequences of it, and forgetting to rely a little bit less on his now dented sword.

                He kept his head a little longer underwater; closing his eyes and breathing through his mouth, letting the cold water give him an inevitable headache. He was sleep deprived; this wouldn’t be any worse than the usual.

                Despite most, despite everything, he needed the Witch. Escorting him wasn’t nearly as hard as other similar works he did. He was discreet, and passed unnoticed, and was too bold. That could be fixed, and wasn’t the quirkiest of youngsters he had handled. Made him stop to think, who was the youngster that panicked in the first place?

                With a headache pounding on his now cold head, he made his way back to Thomas. The Slaughterhouse was far from desert, and he kept himself mindful of it. The bodies on the corner, one unconscious and the other dead didn’t seem to catch anyone’s eyes. Reaching Thomas, whom watched from over the Leviathan’s corpse the door, he noticed why. He carried them to the platform between divisions, where a whale would pass through from A to B.

                Thomas had always been the most thoughtful.

                “No attempts of breaking out.” He answered, simply. A look with Void Gaze, and he knew the Witch was still there. He could have broken out. He could have crossed him further, he could have flown away.

                Instead of any of it, he had his back against a shelf, on the dark, arms crossed, and waited. It was more than Daud could ask for, as he transversed to the door and forced it open carefully. There was a trick for it that he, more than anyone else, should know.

                Was a little too dark to see anything inside, but not enough that he couldn’t see a shimmer of blue and green shine, on the same way his mark did from being on the same room as he was. And the air there, held the same bitterness the Serkonan’s perfume lacked.

                He wasn’t aware how to make amends; it was not something he was good at. The fact he was still here meant there was enough to reason to try though. Daud didn’t need to trust the Witch, or rely on him, or concede to what he said for the sake of it, he just couldn’t have him as an enemy. That was the saying, the lesson, and the golden rule. And for more reasons than just fear, he didn’t want to end up with him has enemy.

                The Knife was great at lying to himself. He was still light headed from being at the same room as the Witch. Corvo still spiked anger and lured like a flame to a moth. His mark rewarded him with exhilaration from having the Witch near; was a danger imprinted on his mind that excited. He had never seen someone marked like him before – it was like being a shark in a pond of fishes and eels. Some were threatening and poisonous, but no one above him.

                Corvo was a shark, of different strips. Lured and pushed away. Kill or join. And this was too unique not to try being on his good side, but also, so difficult.

                “Barrister Arnold Timsh.” Didn’t sound like an apology, but was a beginning. “The previous owner of _The Delilah._ The Delilah behind the name was a lover of his, a woman that worked at the Dunwall Tower and became a painter.”

                “She is the one you are looking for.” It was the reply after some seconds, as the Witch stepped his soundless way towards the door and outside.

                Just like Rothwild had mentioned, it was there, on the way he moved, the way he spoke. _‘Funny airs; like pride’._ It was indeed something unique, and perhaps not only on his own palate but others. It was on the fears people had of his mother.

                On a sudden realisation, despite of losing fingers for rot, even though their gums bled and their teeth fell from toxins they believed were witchcraft, despite all the sorrow and ruin - those people kept coming to his mother’s doorway, until death took them before they could return. It was there, on air he carried, and she had carried the same; one a charlatan, the other a true Witch. Her other lessons must have been as precious and true; if only he could remember all of them.

                “My people have information on the Barrister already. He is a known aristocrat.” The Knife supplied, as he stepped out of the way and the bird’s black eyes looked straight at Thomas on his way out; He was certain they hadn’t talked, was against Thomas’ personal way of handling things, but sure they had stared at one another through a wall the entirety of his absence. If Thomas could smell from the Serkonan Witch half Daud detected on him, then he knew better than to be close of the door.

                Now, under his right eye, he wore a dark bruise, reddish and purple, over a Serkonan’s prized whiskey skin. Looked intensely contrasted like an exquisite painting, but also an atrocity, almost a sin to have it there. _Heresy_.

                 He was easily caught watching – dissecting the gaze the Witch sent his way, observing the bruise on the corner of his lip and the mark on his cheek, a bruise that would swell if he didn’t keep an eye on it. Daud always had a heavy hand, and he didn’t take as many hostages as he was sent to terminate. Hostages were expensive to manage, unlike terminations, thus, he never grew used to just knocking out. That had been the back of his hand; his knuckles must be responsible by the split lip - such a dark colour also hinted against his neck.

                Unconceivable offenses, noblemen would say. Sure he could see the terminology being applied on the same weight here, now. Corvo’s dark eyes were those staring at an unconceivable offense, and the witness of a crime. He should remember he wasn’t dealing with an urchin, a cutthroat, or anything of the like.

                Daud could have evaded it, he really could. His life was built around evading harm and dealing it double in return, he could have made it much worse.  But some wrongdoings he knew were better not taking to court, and each one parting way was not an option – He choose his penitence and just closed his eyes before the Witch’s fist got to his cheek.

                And screw any courtesy he might give noblemen and maidens, he was not overlooking the Witch again for he was sure he was getting a bruise just as bad.

                “I should cut your fingers for that.” He spat, and it was beautiful the resemblance. The air of pride and the way it seemed to shimmer around the creature in that pent up anger. Daud hadn’t been all wrong either, but sometimes it didn’t truly matter who started it.

                He held his wrist before he withdrew his arm for another hit; holding it tightly but not enough to bruise. Enough of bruises, he liked his fingers very much. His free hand reached for his jaw for a moment; carefully moving it from side to side. It would bruise and ache, but his jaw was in place, and he frowned – or grinned, he wasn’t even sure of what his expression was, or even the sensation underneath it.

                A mix of outraging, anxiousness and exhilaration would sum it up. An apology wouldn’t feel as fulfilling, or as entertaining. Somewhere in his dark but fiery eyes, painted lips and arched features like a sea serpent of myth, he saw a burning malice. Those airs of pride were back how they should have been.

                “He lives on the Legal District. Will you come?” He said, and Corvo stared into his soul a bit longer - he was so close – and he must have felt like the Barrister felt; a coldness and emptiness once the edges of his vision didn’t tunnel anymore, and his mark shone a little less bright as the Witch took his gaze from his, and took with him his wrist from Daud’s gloved hand.

                From above, faint, on the edge of his mind as a sound of minor importance, he could listen to Thomas letting out his breath; he could only wonder for how longer he held it.

                “Obviously.” He said, as he walked away, up the walkway towards the whale; to finally inspect his handwork for a moment. Sure he hoped the damned creature had been worth it, a man’s life and so many hostilities traded, for what could have been an easier infiltration. Daud didn’t want any more blood on hands; let the old blood age and be washed until only he would know how many ceased to breath from his actions.

                Still, he could see himself doing this again. If for the same reason he had today.

                He walked carefully after the Witch; he would rather leave knowing the other got out of here untouched – he wasn’t as invalid as Daud put him, but neither was he an assassin. Not a nuisance, but neither an extra blade. He watched how he carefully took an apron hanged by, and slowly moved to reach for the whale’s eye, dark and lifeless. Warping it around the apron, he carefully handed it to Daud.

                “There is an abandoned apartment outside. Past the wall of the light, the first on the right, top floor. Bring it there, and watch out for the Overseers.” He said, before he stepped away and in a blur of shadows and feathers, he flapped his wings and flew off, towards the shipping section. Perhaps for him to chase, he thought, as he transversed with a smile for himself, and a signal for Thomas to follow.

                He had no idea how he knew the Overseers took over the outside of the Slaughterhouse and the terminated apartments, but he had feeling, it was for the same reason Corvo brought him here before he left.

                The Assassin arrived to find the Serkonan adjusting a table and the silverware thoughtfully. For a moment, he almost thought there was an actual meal involved but the dead Weeper over the table truly didn’t seem as proper, and some of the plates were broken in the first place. The runes and charts, familiar but unknown, painted on the floor and gave away the intention of this. By the corner, a stove boiled a pan with what he would guess was riverwater. Smell like the Wrenhaven, unmasked and thick on the air.

                Still, the Serkonan was neat enough to pick two rags, pieces of the curtain from the colour of the fabric, and carried the pan of boiling water to the head of the table. It clearly wasn’t supper, but could have been.

                “The eye. Into the pan.” He gestured, walking back to the stove to turn off the valves, and with it, slowly the blue whale oil flames died. Daud didn’t know what this was about, and Thomas watched from the opposite roof, mindful and distant all the same. He couldn’t blame him.

                There was no memory in his mind of a table served like this, even if there was not a meal actually involved. It seemed abandoned and dirty, and it was indeed, but also was neat. The forks, spoons and forks took the positions they should, water cups at the left; tea at the right. Wasn’t an expensive house but also wasn’t absolutely poverty like the commonwealth seemed to live at.

                It was homey, warm, and all the places of the table having been served despite only having two chairs on the corner of the room, told volumes. It was a Serkonan’s table; with more plates than there was currently people at the table, so they would feel compelled to call someone over to fill the gap.

                Everything of Corvo screamed Serkonos. It was a nice comfort, and he carefully unrolled the eye to let it fall into the water.

                Almost immediately, the pan began to foam and let out smoke, boiling enough to become steam and he stepped back, and so did the Witch. The Weeper’s body disappeared from over the table, swallowed like tears into the dark as all candles died.

                A moment later, the steaming subdued, the pan void of water and the eye, and where the Weeper’s corpse was, now over a tray, laid a rune. The Witch sighed, before making it around the table to look outside the balcony past Daud – curiously, the Assassin did the same. No Overseer had bothered to look up and didn’t notice the steam coming out of the window just yet.

                “It’s yours. A parting gift.” Corvo sure seemed to be doing his part on trying to fix amenities. Perhaps, in a way, was his way of apologising. He had a feeling they didn’t need more, and he picked the rune, holding it tightly for a moment to hear it beating, to take in a deep breath - of sea, of pomegranate, basil and Serkonos - before he let it go enough so that the Void could swallow it fully.

                Guards at the Legal District would be less of a menace than butchers and their saws. For the sake of security, next time he was taking Thomas and Billie with him, to at least overlook the area. There was more to uncover at Timsh’s state, there always was. And there would be more ground to cover there, and more information for the Witch to translate. Without him, he might as well not even go.

                The Knife still knew nothing, still was handling the dangers of treading with Witches and for a matter of fact, he knew it couldn’t be of any good. It hadn’t been good for old Barrister Arnold Timsh, wouldn’t be for Daud.

                Still, he had to be lying to say he didn’t like every last bit of it. The Serkonan was a sum of all things he liked and hated and to handle him had been awfully wonderful. He was looking forward to seeing the crow again.

                He was definitely making sure Corvo knew when and where to go. Maybe he would get there at the pub himself to tell him. It would be worth every second of his while.

                He listened to the crow, cawing as it jumped into the air and flew off upriver.

                This time he didn’t chase, but next time he would. Into the Void and back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam.
> 
> It's huge and took forever but I’m a bit happier with how it went. Phew.
> 
> Leave a comment, dude. Be a cool dude.


	6. Invisible Monsters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud and the Whalers at the Chamber of Commerce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lighter chapter for the sake of an easier day of typing for me... Yesterday I posted the chapter at 5AM, would you believe on that? It was strangely difficult to write at parts, and also very breathtaking.
> 
> We aren’t doing that again with 7k words. Outsider’s Balls, no.
> 
> Let’s make it lighter then, shall we?

**_"Invisible Monsters."_ **

_“Our real discoveries come from chaos, from going to the place that looks wrong and stupid and foolish.”_  
_**― Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters**_

 

 

                “Those butchers got you square, hmn?”

                Daud could only scoff at that, as the sun went through pile after pile of notes and papers, the late night growing foggy before his tired eyes and under the smoke of a cheap cigar.

                The rule was the same with alcohol and cigar. One hit of the expensive stuff, while the senses are still clean to appreciate it. After that, the good would blend with bad on his palate and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. This one was truly cheap though, he mused. While the district seemed to have been completely drowned in flood waters and chaos, this was as dry as it could be. He could feel sand and dust over his tongue, all the way coming to sit on his lungs.

                He killed the cheap cigar but it still let out its slow, blueish smoke towards the yellow lights as his hands straightened the pile of papers by supporting one edge on the table.

                “I wish it was just butchers in there.” He said, admitting what was roaming the halls like a starved rat, searching for a toe to bite off. He didn’t intend to hear it most of the time, but he never found a switch to turn on and off his ears. He could take out his sword and vests but he remained an assassin.

                And the tale that interested was of Daud working with _consorts of the Outsider –_ namely, a Witch. And _she_ had been the one to break his nose from his insolence.

                Was creative, he would give them that. And he could see why it spread so fast, enough to make a full circle back to himself; it was a lot more interesting than his story of being hit by a butcher which was also true.

                But he had a feeling that behind those rumours, there was some speculations from Billie herself, and she sold reliability and trustworthiness amongst all ranks of his Whalers. Rumours with her stamp of approval had a lot more value than his words. He wasn’t surprised, not in the slightest.

                And sure it was his profession, but it didn’t mean he would craft a silkier and enticing lie, and let it roam around her Whalers for the sake of silencing their speculations. He had a lot more to do than to control their gossip.

                It bothered him a little, however. Because it was somewhat true and hit close to home.

                Billie seemed to know that fact perfectly as she looked at the papers with him, in mostly even silence; stealing a drag of his cigar without asking but as it got worse and dusty, she coughed like a child and let Daud smoke the rest.

                She could be sleeping, but she was not. Back when the Whalers were assigned to keep an eye to the Barrister, as the plague began to spread and with it his practise of throwing people, poor or rich, out of their home under the accusation of plague, Billie had been there. Despite all the quirks and problems her still apprentice ways had, one thing Daud had to pride on was her skills. She was thoughtful, creative, and had an iron fist. She had founded a small Outpost by the Legal District and she had been the mind behind organising it; not often they had such observatory with its own group of Whalers out of Daud’s direct command. He couldn’t see it, but it was clear his favouritism.

                Regardless, it had been a success. They hadn’t been found out and from eavesdropping and listening, they wrote tomes on nearby or afar royals; their schemes and true cases of plague; false ones also had been embedded in truths to make accusations plausible. The lady that bathed on Pandyssian oils was accused of plague bearing and witchcraft; the cheater at gambling was accused of smuggling the deported back into the city. There was a slimmer of truth behind those lies, crafted neatly by a spider that every time he howled an order, Guard and Whalers scurried to take note.

                The espionage was the difference between the common cutthroat gang from a group of organised Assassins. Billie had given something more for Daud to be proud of.

                She seemed to know as if she wrote it herself, letter by letter, note, tome and paper by paper, the ones relevant  about the Barrister himself for once, and not the people he urged to the Flooded District to neighbour the Whalers of Rudshore. Daud had no reason to don’t let her pull up a chair and have a look at the papers with him.

                It was the sort of information he already knew, it resided on the back of his head and he just needed to read for them to come up back to the top of his mind. But it was as if they had never even blurred on her mind; Billie just picked the papers so he could know as much as someone that had been there.

                “Well, the Watch then hit you pretty bad. Or was it a whale’s tail?” She asked even though her features told she already had her guess. The corner of her lips quirked, and she seemed to some extent, overjoyed. Clearly it sounded in her mind like the ultimate proof he should have not ditched her company.

                Would be childish to strive to prove her wrong when she wasn’t, but alas, he could do without her smugness. “Rothwild. But now he is in a crate, towards Tyvia right now. If he survives the cold and starvation, he will have paid more than enough for this.”

                It must have sounded convincing enough but not enough for her to let her hand go from what her and his Whalers came up with. If it was him, he wouldn’t have let go of it either. Rothwild was a far less interesting character of made up stories. No pub would sing drunk about his feats, but about a dark eyed Witch that danced one step in front of the Master Assassin, that was a noteworthy tale.

                Sounded like the sort of story he would stop to listen to. It haunted him at night when he tried to sleep, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking it over.

                “I thought the blood at your blade had been his.” Billie stated, with almost a disappointed and bored tune as she got up to close the ledges and tomes and put them back in their shelves. “It’s a whole lot of trouble to send him away instead of just, you know, tying up the loose ends with a blade at his throat.”

                “You’d be surprised.” He said, adjusting the papers they had already transcript from the tomes and ledges, all read and highlighted on the parts of importance. Everything that they had on him, he now had a copy of on his hands. “Just keep your eyes a bit sharper to your surroundings, and things stop being so funnelled. There are other ways than just killing a possible asset in the future.”

                Lies. He hadn’t learnt how to do things without his sword. A black bird had his eyes and ears trained on every bright thing and piece of information, he had noticed the crates, not Daud. Him and Billie weren’t that different, if at all. “Still sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing.”

                If he was honest, he thought the same, but if he didn’t give the chance of doubt to everything, he could have killed the inventor of the cure of the plague and didn’t know it. “Took me ten minutes to box him up.”

                “Next time don’t almost lose your nose doing so.” Billie returned, and he sighed. The back rest of his chair was gelid and chilled his spine through the shirt; almost made him rethink if leaning back was such a good idea. The night had gotten too cold already, and if he wanted to avoid the cold, like the rats he should get to sleep, or at least try to. “I will keep it in mind. Tomorrow we get in contact with Thalia.”

                Watching her put the chair back in place, close to the crowded tables full of other blueprints of buildings and apparel both, made him think perhaps that time was nearing. Perhaps she would get even better than him at knowing when to spare from the blade; and doing so, tie those ends without shedding blood, so she wouldn’t end like him. Old, bitter; chasing words on the wind and rumours from ancient deities in hopes to find something to die for; something to alleviate the weight of his nights.

                He found a Witch that just put more chaos and turmoil on them. But at least, it was a distraction. Not the cure, neither a proper remedy, but a drink on a cold night; addictive, bittersweet, maddeningly once he had too much of it and was stumbling on the streets after a hole to fall on for the night, or another dose of it to render him even more vivid.

                This wasn’t the proper end for an Assassin. A blade was, along many other ends that were, instead of an alleyway and the drunken stupor of some carnal indulgence, sweet but degrading. He wouldn’t resort to drink his nights away neither he should be chasing black feathers because of the thrill it gave. It wasn’t suitable.

                But seemed a couple times were enough for him to acquire a taste for it. Billie, forever sharp, quick and younger perhaps was seeing it on his eyes; perhaps he was growing hollow, like an aristocrat alive for too long, addicted to those indulgences of youth that now were killing him while he still walked. The biggest sign of it was that he just couldn’t take him from his mind.

                As Billie closed the double doors behind herself, he stared at it for just a while longer before getting up to turn the lamps off. One by one, seeing the flames and bright oils subdue of colour as he brought one last lamp to his bedside, and he sat down with his journal – to tend to it one last time.

                There was much to deliver to those pages, in more secrecy than he dared to put on his audio logs. He could start from leaving, as Rulfio came to give advice from what the Whalers had mentioned of the Butchers from former works. To watch out for the shrapnel shards and scrap metal they spun on the blades and it dug in like a shower of bolts. He could have started from Billie’s tantrum for not being called to come, this time subdued into something quiet and knowing that had caught him off guard.

                Instead, he began writing about the Slaughterhouse itself, and the sunset light and feathers. If he wanted something to stick in his mind when he read this again, it was the contrast on which that started. Perhaps a dissertation about the events would bring some clarity – it did not, but it comforted nonetheless. He wrote down about the whales and the practices of the slaughterhouse, and spent a while longer to describe the whalesong that had been unnerving for him and in a different volume, to the Witch he brought along.

                Perhaps in the future he ought to write more often. He ended up turning more pages than he intended, disserting about his trip to Serkonos and what he could trace that now lived on someone’s skin. The sort of detail that he noticed constantly left and right from maids and servants and noblewomen but didn’t write down. Maybe he should have, and if it flattered enough on his younger age he would have found someone sharp and near that would invite him to be bed more often than easily impressed, common women would have done.

                It was a delicate work after all, to write to someone instead of merely disserting facts like he was taught at his time at the academy and before that, sailing through the Archipelago of the Isles. Journaling was a worthwhile skill. Writing to someone, however, was something he had never been the most fluent at. He had Misha for that.

                The half Tyvian had worked with postal service before, at the delivery of packages into dangerous parts of Dunwall when he was younger, and when he was older, he did transcripts of handwritten forms and information into the writing machine. Before he turned eighteen, his fingers didn’t open and close how they should anymore due the ungodly long hours of work and endless abuse. He ended up at the streets; a con artist, forgery his greatest talent and letters from wives and family members to their loved ones, those were his passion. From them, he would say, he got to travel the whole world and lived relationships he had never seen in person.

                A novelist, had the times been better and given him the chance to choose. He wasn’t the most reliable assassin either; his grip on the sword was weak and crossing swords hit his bones and sinew the wrong way. At the cold, his fingers would curl and shrink unless he kept them thickly covered and warm at all times. With winter, came an incessant pain at those joints in his hands. He was a Whaler, however. Trained on his mind, feet and body, he could get wherever he wanted, armed with a wristbow only, and forged whatever ledge, wherever the paper that needed to be forged was.

                He would have known how to turn Daud’s observations into something sharp and bit more flattering. Not lacking regalia but also not embedded in sweetness. It would have bought him more allies than enemies. He would be the one there to listen from the Master Assassin about the Barrister and his niece, and with a small paper he would make notes and eventually produce a letter that Daud would sign and send to Thalia the day next. And as soon as he had a response from the noblewoman, he would make his own letter to deliver at the Hound Pits Pub.

                Clearly, he wanted that letter to be sent as soon as possible.

                That one he would write himself, and he was by no means skilful at feeding good links with words. He could, however, breathe out unto his journal how if it depended on his writing skills, Corvo would take offense from his short and draught-dry letter. He could at least laugh of it later after it worried his mind enough until the idea bothered no more and grew stale.

                It shouldn’t concern him so much after all; it was an informative and not an official letter to a Duke. Neither were they royals, where on his golden threaded letter he should bring along a gift that more than the information itself or his name, it would be what would decide the relevance of his message. Perhaps he would send a pistol embroidered with gold – But no, the Witch didn’t fire anything but a crossbow of his. Perhaps he would send him in a case with good liquor and cigars – But that would be too generic.

                He couldn’t believe himself as he slipped into the night and spent it almost fully awak; falling asleep a little earlier than the sun rose. His fingers were red at part, and he dried a flask of ink from writing, at times in quick rushes of the metallic nub almost through the paper; sometimes slow and curved and thick, despite being of a much more delicate touch over the paper.

                Into the night and paper, it became his company to recite dutifully the properties on rosemary and basil, as well the flavours of orange and pomegranate on his tongue. He disserted about the rarity and evenness of whiskey coloured skin, in comparison to his paled and fainted out colour. He sketched about fingers and lips and eyes, without an angle more interesting than straight looking at him; exuberant, to mix black feathers and black curls of hair against the high arch of eyebrows, into the restless eyes of an ever vigilant bird of prey with the thick lashes and eye lines of a hawk.

                It haunted him into his dreams, making him wake up late and just as exhausted, ruffled from what looked like he lost the fight of his life – which in a way, perhaps he had. Unkempt hair and the morning scowl that could tell the day would progress just as awfully.

                This was the face the Whalers found him with, having breakfast a little past midday. “Sir, respectfully but _honestly_ , you are standing on the way to the icebox.”

                Was the complaint that came towards him, and he just moved his chair a little bit to the side from his favoured place near the adapted, unique machinery the Academy had a name for, but the Whalers baptised logically and dearly of _The Coffee Machine_.

                That one, alone, was worth in itself a tale to share that he had written somewhere in the past blank books he turned into journals. Volume eleven or something of the sort, if his memory hadn’t failed him now without the dark beverage.

                It started with Devon. It was a commotion of course, for old people that wasn’t Daud were deemed foreign to the group of Whalers, and they thoroughly doubted the man’s worth upon joining the group. They had tattooed his body but his faith, he told, kept him from being touched by the Void like they were. He was surprisingly right, and up to this day, the man hadn’t been able to do a single transversal. And honestly, neither he tried often.

                He was banned from the Academy of Natural Philosophy for unauthorised use of the machinery and supplies of the Academy. Ended up he had traded with the wealthy and had been a physician for much longer, but wasn’t the first time he stole from patrons to treat people wherever he could find them. The masks he wore weren’t enough to conceal his identity; neither could it mask medications vanishing from the cabinets. His talent at mending people with little resources and positive thinking despite dramatic sceneries was far more than enough for Daud to consider having the physician on their ranks. There was more work to do at Rudshore than just cutting throats, and the man was effective at his work and more. He had mended Daud’s nose, doused in brandy and coated with advice Daud had already heard before.

                But when the man came, he both was met with suspicion and youthful delight by the younger Whalers, whom gathered close to him at the afterhours and would watch how his talented fingers would turn a dark wall into a chalkboard, and he would teach them deeper mathematics and calculations through astrology and the movement of the stars. He would say of the machinery used to try and capture the light of the sun and make it energy, as real as whale oil and from it power infinitely new machines. He told of rumours that a few could do it, but the engineers were driven mad from the light, and their eyes burnt from the heat before their eyes. Then, it was forbidden, and the machines were put away.

                The damage, however, was already done. Before he knew it, he could hear from the posters and speakers across the city that the Academy lost some of its machines, too small and inoffensive to worry, but enough to increase the guard outside and within the halls.

                And it was Coleman, their mechanic and developer of apparel that came forward with a use to the machine.

                It remained a mystery how it worked in depth, but a large dark panel was put outside on a balcony close to the makeshift kitchens, and by its side stood a machine that would absorb the light of the sun and conceal it within bars of metal. When turning a switch, the wires would connect to the control board, delicate and small, and from yellow sparks it would spin and put the clogs to function. It wasn’t strong to power anything, neither was it powerful enough to function for long but what Coleman created was perhaps the best use the machine could have.

                When the strapped on clock would hit their waking hour, the machine would produce enough sparks to lit up the whale oil that had been refilled the night before, and with the flame produced, would warm the still of water also filled previously. Then, after another pre-determined time set by the strapped on clock – time enough for the water to boil – it passed through the attached tube to slowly pass through the powdered coffee beans in its own compartment, and filtered through fine silk, it filled a metal still of coffee. All this, to be ready at the waking hours of his men.

                Daud had feared the Guard coming by anytime now, and despised the worship the men began to offer their ingenious and practical craft.

                Later own, growing hooked to the facility the luxury item had, he forced his privilege over the machine and the first cup through his authority. It was only natural to do so.  

                Now -under protests of tyranny and gazes that he was sure that at the earliest hour of the day certainly earned for his death- close to the machine, behind the head of the table, leaning against the counter, he had a chair where he would control the input of the beverage from Whaler to Whaler. It was, safely to say, too much power at their hands to be granted access uncontrollably. No one but Coleman knew how to make it function on demand or more than once a day, thus its voluptuous but daily by-product was closely watched by either him or Rufio. Anyone wanting more had to do it with their own two hands at the stove, which he found out, was not as funny and no one wanted to do anymore.

                He was meticulous with his things, like an old men Billie frequently said. He had his mug, his chair, his position, his mourning rituals, his daily practices, _his routine_ ; without it the most hurried days at Rudshore would drive him mad. Thus, he still sat at his chair even though the coffee inside the metal still was now colder than lukewarm. He still sat there, leaning back a little and resting a calf over his knee and with his crossed arms and half lidded eyes, he still eyed the table and the Whalers talking there.

                Daud remained like an omnipresent however easy to forget figure from the room. Unless, of course, it was lunchtime, which was when he would become, admittedly, a nuisance. His chair against the counter stood on the middle of the kitchen, between the stove and the cupboards and the icebox. Naturally, the most crowded and busy place of the kitchen.

                It was possible for them to walk around him and do whatever they were doing, so unless someone would die on the way to the icebox, he wouldn’t break his routine. No soul could make him do so. And balancing a bottle of ink on his calf along his latest journal, he looked back down from his mug to the paper. The natural light that came from the window was warm and refreshing.

                “Five steps. It’s all it takes for you to make it around me.” He answered, simply and still. Now was becoming common for him to be taking breathfast later. Took him long to fall asleep if he managed to, and when he succeeded, he slept over the hour he normally would wake up. He wasn’t happy by it, but alas, he couldn’t afford to be sleepwalking around the city, thus, his routine remained, just changed the time in which things would happen.

                It wasn’t the only change in their lives, but sure was one that he frequently heard complaints of. Perhaps, the only one which they dared to voice, knowing that there was chances where it would end by his ear.

                “It takes three for you to take your chair and get out of the way, sir.” Galia said with a sigh and he just looked from underneath his brow before turning back his focus to the paper. He wasn’t even sure what was happening with the world for Galia to be the one responsible over lunch. He did rock his chair a little, taking aim to make a mildly more elaborate signature of his name, and with the date, month and year. Today they entered the Month of Ice and there was already frost at the windows and surfaces outside. Soon enough, snow would follow and when it pilled, would announce the beginning of the Month of Hearths.

                “I don’t think you should be allowed to cook, Galia. Don’t take this exception as allowance for you to turn into a tyrant.” He muttered, between blowing the last parts he wrote so the ink would dry and he could finally close his journal and finish his mug of disgustingly cold coffee.

                “After all, this right is granted to him and him only.”

                He heard Billie, forever eavesdropping, this time she didn’t listen from the corner anymore and traipsed her way into the kitchen, with light but firm footsteps and the quirks of her lips that signalled good news or entertainment. In the case of the first, he frowned. Good news meant she was getting things ahead without him, which happened more often than not; but he despised it nonetheless.

                “I don’t think a sense of humour is one of your skills, Lurk. What have you got?” He spat, rocking his chair a little bit back so he could put his mug over the counter. Whenever he got up, he would water it and hang it with the others. There were all sorts of unique designs and handmade pottery, almost a competition of which was the brightest and the most hideous. The prideful owners had their names painted in matching designs of such pieces of horror.

                In comparison, his red one was _boring_ and they reminded him of that constantly. He would rather be boring than join the feud of which mug managed to be the ugliest and unpractical.

                “I had a look around the District, and apparently Thalia’s grandmother is at deathbed.” She said, dedicated to uncovering that information probably just because she took a lot of pride of her watch and Outpost at the Legal District.

                “And?” He knew it had some relevancy, but it was worth the reminder that half information either had its end tied tightly, or was completed straight ahead. His lieutenant just rubbed her hands together, as she took off her gloves.

                “Her grandmother is the natural heir of the Timsh heritage, but she is currently incapable, so naturally it will be Thalia as she is the next directly under. She will have some interest on sharing information for the sake of seeing her hated uncle dead.” She elaborated, and the Knife could see the value of such information.

                There needed to be confirmation from the niece, clearly, but he could see the line of thinking. He could also see that she had been waiting all morning to deliver that piece of information and he had spent it unconscious, trading the daylight for the night. He rolled his sleeves, putting again the cork at the bottle of ink and drying his pen on the piece of cloth before carefully putting them aside, so he could water his mug and hang it. Methodical to the every end.

                “Don’t offer service. But make sure Misha put on the letter that this is open to negotiation. Get him to the Chamber.” He hoped that Timsh could have untied ends that he could use, thinking a little out of the usual and give him a suitable end instead of his blade.

                “Will do.” She said before walking away and he rubbed his temples a little bit. With Galia cooking he wasn’t going to be anywhere close by the time she was ready, he wouldn’t dare try of her cooking. She liked cooking, but the Whalers suffered of chronic dead palates from what they ate through their lives and her cooking on top ended whatever remnant of a palate one could have. He saved himself for being able to spare the coin for a bit of food on the streets.

                His men, however, couldn’t. Neither did they have more authority than her; they relied on him to make sure they wouldn’t be given rat food. So before he left fully, sliding his chair under the counter, he cleared his throat. “Go away Galia. It’s an order. Go pocket the watch, go _fix the ceiling._ Put Vladko to cook in your place.”

                “Vladko is _drunk_ , sir. And asleep still. Asleep and drunk.” She stated, and Daud couldn’t help but to sigh. Taking them from the streets and putting to a halt the killing jobs had its price. “Feel free to wake him up and change places.”

 He had a feeling he was cooking them in here for too long, despite sending them out more often on the other jobs – infiltration, guard and hostage jobs didn’t have the demand they used to have, but were something.

                Some men, talented at the sword more than anything, were clearly growing tense like hounds out of service. Fixing the ceiling didn’t satisfy like working did. Perhaps he should take again the increasingly lowering activity the Whalers used to make often – networking. It was a lot like diplomacy, and yet was common work the gangs did to the local merchants. Networking had never been his way of doing things, but had given the Whalers some security and allegiances before they made their own name.

                During times of plague and chaos was where such allegiances could be brought up. Before this was over, networking sounded like something to consider. It was a way of keeping Billie busy, and leading those of their ranks that couldn’t stay idle anymore; he ought to consider.

                But right now, it didn’t stay on his mind much longer, and as he transversed to the Chamber of Commerce, he began setting up for the day. Papers and letters he had no mind for - he was just as restless as some of the men, but for the other reasons.

                This restlessness dragged, for nearly a week.

                Most of the time, Billie and himself had been away doing networking, while keeping Thomas and Rufio to look after the place while they were away. Separated, they uncovered much more ground and he taught Billie what he knew of networking; whom to talk to, how to get their attention and what to trade; they had much more to trade than just swords and he let her know that. Just someone dead wasn’t as useful – there was information to gather, messages to send, people to save, oddly enough.

                He sent her away, into the most desolate corners of Dunwall to chase for new deals and opportunity. It required a very sharp eye for networking and perhaps this would teach her something. He checked the old links, making sure to keep them strong.  Whatever that needed to be done, he put the most restless whalers to deliver under the small detail – keep the swords dry.

                It wasn’t obeyed often, he knew it. He slept counting the numbers; assuming they broke the rule just once like he had at the slaughterhouse himself, at night he would count the numbers of Whalers he sent off or put Rulfio to send off, and would reflect at those numbers.

                In a week, the pile of corpses would have painted the statues outside the Chamber of Commerce a crimson red. It didn’t scare or hurt on the dark, but worried a little. Made him think perhaps more than he should, and it served him well to keep him awake at night. Not every Whaler was bothered by his request of trading the sword for a sleep dart, some he dared to say, were waiting for the day to come. They were at times urchins that hadn’t come from cutthroating before, but were merely starved; thieves willing to do whatever they could for a plate of food.

Even amongst the cutthroats, as an example, there was Thomas; and on his own silent personality, he didn’t kill anyone besides his target. There was almost no resistance. But changes were changes, and sure it generated a small commotion that he didn’t listen to, but could see Billie’s face in the middle.

                He closed the door to don’t hear.

                Change was a difficult thing, he knew, and it took time for it to sit but not even all the time in the world would change some people. A business, of any kind, would send those people unwilling to change to the street, either with a goodbye or like Rothwild did to his men.

                Neither way was how things worked at the Whalers. He didn’t hear or filter he just watched through the glass the blurred sound and image of the arguments revolving; the Chamber wasn’t free of the chaos that spread through the streets.

                There was no dream of the Void and its black-eyed inhabitant on that night to tell him what name he needed to chase to set order at his house again. There was no price to play, neither a contract to sign.

                Some, namely the people that got more of these things done, trusted this to nothing but faith. Faith that would wrap around an action as it was delivered.  Those people of faith – not the Overseers but the everyman, they tended to mend things, even if slowly. They had faith that doing their best was enough to fix the world, or at least what was at their hands to fix.

                However, and sadly, Daud had never been a man of faith.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. We have many shades of Daud here, and a bit of the Whalers. This isn’t a filler in itself given it has some actually important actions of plot – I just am not going to tell you where.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Stay sharp, there is always more to come!
> 
> Leave a comment! A hello! Kudos! Something!


	7. Silence Has a Sound.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of the mission Eminent Domain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I'd like to say I'm sorry for taking three days to write this, but I will justify my absence. I went overboard.
> 
> This chapter had originally 18k words and with a piece of my heart, I cut it in half and now its all complete, I humbly offer it to you.
> 
> Forgive me, and tell me your heart has kindness on the comments.
> 
> I hope these two chapters will make your stay here worthwhile.

_**"Silence Has a Sound."** _

_**\- Muhammad Imran Hasan (About the characteristic silence before storms.)** _

 

__

 

                Whatever was there, walking amongst his Whalers and reeking of chaos, he closed his eyes for.

                Before the menace of Witches and the trouble of handling one close to his exposed back, he couldn’t afford to keep track of whims and stubbornness of his men. He needed just a couple more days of their silence, a couple more days of not seeing.

                They were silent and sent off in groups thorough abandoned Dunwall. Billie, as if distancing from the chaos and choosing to don’t hurl anymore fuel into the fires, she closed up to him and to others. From her, there was steel in her eyes and on his as well.

                It wouldn’t be the first time in the history of the Whalers that he wouldn’t manage the fires immediately within the household for the sake of finishing a job first. But every time, it always stung and left him bitter as if it was the first.

                Daud ended up never sending the letter to the Hound Pits Pub, and instead of it, he was up before the morning dawned fully, packed up, designed the heads that would hold the reigns while he was away, and left.

                There wasn’t much to tell Billie and Thomas about the creature he wanted them to cautiously keep in mind – don’t talk to, don’t look to, but _watch_ ; like Corvo watched, watched without looking at all the time but noting every important step, opening every book they saw stumbling by, turn every coin, every cobblestone, every note, at least six times.

                An extra eye on the Witch wouldn’t hurt, when Daud’s head felt somewhere else, buried underground by several feet of dirt, enough to muffle down the noises from above, the footsteps, and cover his eyes. He wasn’t as watchful as he wished. His eyes were tired, into something that seeped into his bones. His head was elsewhere; back home, and working would clear it, certainly – and while he did trust he would meet a pair of reliable eyes, he needed a pair of swords to make up for them both.

                So watch and guard and think; Thomas with his rationalising mind, and Billie that knew the grounds, the man in question and the surroundings of his mansion at the Legal District. Nothing would escape control like it had; Daud didn’t commit the same mistake twice.

                But why he still felt so wary upon leaving the Rudshore Waterfront? He didn’t know. But he had taken breakfast, light and watered to make sure it wouldn’t weight his step, and most of the Whalers were asleep – the ones awake were away, patrolling. The before dawn light was orange and violet, an exquisite duet that made the moldy but clear halls feel cold and abandoned. There was nothing cold and abandoned here,  these halls had more life than the rest of the district. Dents and attempts of fixing furniture they broke in either training, mistakes or having fun when they thought Daud wouldn’t hear.

                It had life, but today, it seemed to mourn, haunted. And if the Chamber of Commerce had an spirit of its own, that counted every soul inside by its worth, energy and influence, and those lives inside proportionally each had an influence into the Chamber’s spirit, and that was something that could be seen, it would have been a woman. In dusky grey, blue and purple, wearing the colours of the night and a blonde hair of dawn, with green strips washed by the flood waters and mold – and she would be crying with a passion, crying tears of blood. She would be mourning, the Chamber was mourning under his feet and even the creaking of the floorboard seemed tired from wailing like they used to.

                Was it truly mourning, or he was reflecting his own frustrations over those dark, luxurious but aged walls?

                He was growing old and forlorn indeed. Enough for it to be felt on the weight of his hands, the weight of his feet as he walked. Old and frustrated and tired. He wanted to see the end of this already, and his heart earned for no distraction or a drink or anything but to see matters done.

                Transversing through the city was tiresome, and more often than not he missed the electric carriages that once had zapped here and there from Dunwall, replacing the horses that quickly were outlawed from the city’s confines, and replaced by carriages put on rails, that passed through the most important streets of the household. Never had it been so cheap and fast to get up and down Dunwall – one of the first inventions powered by oil, and goodness had the people been happy.

                There was trams and streetcars then, before the whale oil business, there was a few, powdered on steam but with the oil, it boomed and he believed, could reach every corner of Dunwall – any street large enough to pass a streetcar would gain rails, and the citizens were amazed by the thought of being able to no longer tire their feet so much to get to work; the heart of the Empire became something that the people could see, feel on their everyday. Titles didn’t matter as much as seeing and feeling the benefits of such priviledge. The people of Dunwall had been brighter then, and as the oil-powered streetcars reached even further – a brighter future seemed to be ahead of them.

                But then came forward the shortage, and the plague. The popular streetcars had been the first to be cut – a short lived dream – and then, the nobles if they intended to keep using their private carriages, they ought to hire their own people to clear the rails for their passage. Most of Dunwall was unreachable now, unless it was through the river or by foot, both very dangerous routes. Weepers filled the streets and the District limits were slim even for Dunwallers; martial law haunted and herded workers from main streets to the factories like slaves, at gunpoint and kicks. The gangs asked fees and not even was passport for a safe passage; the rivers, were blocked by the guard and gangs as well. Without bribes, one either would clash unto a moving sandbank or a sunken whaling ship, or would be put down by the Watch or the gangs for not paying what was due.

                He would often see the carriages and streetcars that were once the symbol of progress and adoration, now completely forgotten and thrown to the side. Their insides housed the homeless, rats and Weepers – a small hideout from the sight of the guards that passed too quickly through the streets, in a hurry to get from A to B and don’t stay in the open – alone they were as easy prey as any citizen, perhaps were even more hated. The citizens were no one of interest, but there was no creature as feared and hated as the simple guardsmen.

                Transversing was their nature, and didn’t take as long or tired as much as it seemed. They could just transverse to the place on top of their mind, if they knew it well but neither he nor Thomas had been to the Legal District as often as Billie herself. They would take the long and tiring way to there, tranversing over the rooftops as far as their sight would allow them to hold the place in their heads and got, rooftop from rooftop, and keeping a look underneath. There were advantages to arriving at the place instead of summoning oneself into an area that would now, house Weepers as far as they knew. They were doing this the slow and careful way.

                 The Rudshore Waterfront was on the outskirts of the Old Port District, where the Hound Pits resided, wasn’t a faraway place to begin with. The day was dawning slowly, they could spare the time to show by the pub, to inform the Witch and most importantly, escort the troublemaker there.

                Daud had no mind for it, or for anything for that matter. The announcements of the Lord Regent sounding in the speakers in a loop around the city seemed to have no sound for him, the words held no meaning. The buzzing of the vibrations, before the frequency was fully adjusted and recited, it sounded like a growl for him. He desperately wanted to silence each speaker that he passed by. But his new sword didn’t have the same balance as the other he had ruined. Would take him a while to tune up to it, like a stretch of his own limbs – Hopefully he wouldn’t get into sync with it in a fight today, but rather at the Chamber of Commerce, training until his hand felt light and foreign without the blade.

                But his mind was relieved of such thoughts as he approached the pub, seeing the isolated and quarantined District focusing on those small places that still displayed signs of life despite the order to function no more. Such places were the Hound Pits Put, and not far at all, he could see the smoke curtain that rose from the Daiger & Dial Company; a compartments manufacturer, of whale oil tanks, stills and Outsider knew what more.

                What he didn’t know however, was that in such an ungodly hour of the day, the Pub would be open, and with so many people flowing in and out. He could only watch, people stepping in and out, some more asleep than others, a few that before so much chaos on the city, recycled cans and pieces of a forgotten carriage into benches, and surrounding the heaters, they talked and a few even laughed, passing around the circle a kettle with milk until it was empty.

                The Month of Ice wasn’t giving them any peace, even amongst the men, their knees touched both for malnourishment and the cold, neither set of pants seemed more expensive than the other, they were all gelid and cold. But the laughter, such a rare thing, rushed through fabric and gloves and steaming mugs from food that certainly wasn’t even allowed a second to rest before it was served to the workers. Outside, it was almost peaceful, as the early waking up workers shared a moment to breathe and have a lithe meal and prepare for the abuse of this day – for the best or the worse, around here the Watch didn’t come and being it safe or not, at least it was free of Weepers, rats and guards.

                This small silence attracted, and this solitude was comforting in odd ways. It wouldn’t last, he knew. Nothing good lasted in Dunwall, but for the moment, he appreciated the sight from the rooftops, before signalling for Thomas and Billie to disperse, and when they vanished, he transversed to the back doors from the yard.

                The ruined tower of the Witch remained untouched, standing tall and odd as if it floated on the Void instead of being subject of the forever eroding earth on the edge of the river. There was no presence that he could see through the walls of the tower. Before it, a workshop stood with its doors closed, but a window revealed the inside with nothing less than a whale oil depot of both containers and a refilling machine. Within, he could safely assume a mechanic was already awake, mending something behind the closed door of his workshop.

                One thing Daud enjoyed, or could see himself doing until he was senile and unable to distinguish the lake from the cobblestone streets, it was to watch. See the people walking and learning from them, an infiltrator’s work, so he knew exactly when to show up, and to whom. Which person to hold hostage, which to terminate, which to befriend. He perhaps wasn’t as good as some, and it seemed that within the surface of facts, he couldn’t see _enough_ – but the tapestry of Dunwall’s social threads, he liked to study and watch.

                Perhaps, in another life, he would have made a better Royal Spymaster than Burrows could have ever been.  But, he also though, perhaps he would have shed even more blood. Took him too long to notice that there were advantages to forgetting the sword for a while.

                The only other place he could see golden figures of people, it was at the Pub against the counter, where people served in an almost endless rush and workers lined and mobs against the counter – the proximity by no means hated in the cold that was outside; here the windows of the Pub fogged, in there it was almost too warm. An adjacent room, however close, produced just as much heat, and there were figures there too, that he put himself too watch.

                Walking in wasn’t an option, he noted. He might as well explode a grenade in there and hand himself to the City Watch, he would cause less of a ruckus. For once, he didn’t want to intrude in the slightest. There was some peace on just watching and through Void Gaze, making out from the curves and edges the people. Workers differed by their sexes through their curves, and women and men pilled to get their meals. All the booths inside were crammed and occupied. He had a hard time telling apart the waitresses from the female workers – but aprons gave it away, as they moved; so did their actions and functions, clearly.

                To the kitchens, he could see two figures doing their best to prepare the dishes and meals, embedded on their work and the hiss of boiling pans. Somethings smell wonderful, with an increased herbal flavour and the dark musk of powders. The door to the kitchens remained open, spreading the scent through the main part of the pub, and he could see through the door that led to the outside and that he leaned against, he could see another woman in apron and a taller figure.

                Daud pretended to don’t recognise, even though he did. He inspected the tall and lean frame of the Witch he was here for. Pants rolled to the calves, where it covered the hem of boots that he could hear clicking from here; hard soled, unsuitable for their work – but alas, Daud was the only assassin here. He could see the bulge by forearms from rolled up sleeves and quick hands, moving and slicing and stirring. Life wasn’t easy, he was reminded. To earn the survival without shedding blood or doing dirty work was complex and tiredsome. He hadn’t stopped to think if rigging the dog fights were enough to earn the room he kept at the tower – perhaps wasn’t, if he was there at the kitchens, arms deep to the elbows into the making of food for coins he wouldn’t see.

                He watched, without detail, just a golden silhouette a while longer, before sighing and stepping back. Sometimes it caught him off guard the difficulty and liveliness of normal citizen lives. Yet, there was nothing _normal_ on Corvo. Couldn’t he have imposed his will with witchcraft and terror? He could have. Couldn’t he have a coven and no need to pay rent or listen to orders? He could have. But he _didn’t._

                It could teach people a thing or two about the value of humility. Or was it foolishness and naivety?

                He opened the back door, and looking around his feet, he reached around the dirt until he found a suitably small stone, enough for him to carefully throw within the kitchen and hear clank against the metallic counter. It startled both Witch and servant, whom immediately had a look at the ovens as if it was customary to have something clanging and perhaps exploding in there. Knowing the luck of the common Dunwaller, he didn’t doubt it.

                The second stone, a bit bigger called more attention, enough for the Witch to look around until the small stone was found out, and he could see on Void Gaze a pair of blue eyes and a blue range of sight search until it found him through the wall. It was so strange and exquisite, to exchange a silent gaze through the walls – he had never seen blue from the Whalers’ Void Gaze. He looked at him for a small moment, before carefully begin untying an apron from around his back, and Daud heard; “I think there is a problem with the hounds, Lydia. I think one got loose. I’m sorry, but don’t wait for me.”

                The reply, Daud didn’t hear, but he rested his back against the gelid wall and crossed his arms, blinking Void Gaze away from his eyes as he reached inside his red coat for the case of not-so-cheap cigarettes; He already had an expensive one this morning, and wasn’t to give himself the pleasure to have another of those today still today. The door opened, and quickly slid out Corvo, not needing to look around to find him.

                His cigarette remained on the way to his lips but didn’t move back or fro, not even once. It remained where it was, thinking. Thinking he wasn’t good at tying his hair and the bun was loose, unacceptable for a killer but on Corvo he would forgive it; there was no way he couldn’t. The humid kitchen made it curl even more and some spirals that weren’t tameable, framed his features like intricate hand mirrors of noblewomen. His face had a darker hue – but his lips stood the darkest, in a colour that matched the bruise he put on his cheek, now growing old and dark. There was some natural contrast there, something that tugged and pulled and wasn’t as fearsome as the other times he had seen the Witch. It was nearly comfortable, it was almost common. Almost too _delicate_ , as if instead of a hawk he caught on his fangs a small sparrow that couldn’t have haunted his memory, and the wrong move would end the game with its neck broken.

                But alas, his mark burned in recognition all the same and he took a drag of his cigarette to drown his nerves. Looks lied, and under the masks of his Whalers there were teenagers and overgrown urchins. Corvo might look like a typical Serkonan barkeeper but alas, his eyes were no less intense and maddening. At night, when the man would put his gear and _impress_ , Daud would be amazed to the point of drooling.

                Right now, he found a strange comfort on the casual appearances. To think, they were all still _human._ Daud thought it was just him that had such weaknesses.

                “I thought you would let me know instead of just showing up.” He came to complain, and the Knife could help the small roll of his shoulders, as he reached inside his coat to get his pocket watch, just to check.  “I could spare the time you must take to gear up.”

                Sure putting all that on must take a while. He wasn’t sure if it was just gear or Corvo was preparing himself to get arrested, and did the work ahead of the guards by putting up so many ties and harnesses and straps to his being, bone charms in rows – plural. The Witch let his eyes go from Daud back to the door; some sense of duty, perhaps, and the Master Assassin seemed almost insulted that he perhaps put such menial work before their agreement.

                He also noted that he never raised his blade to the Witch; he hadn’t dared. It wasn’t under threat that he was doing this with the Knife of Dunwall but instead followed his own interests. Still, was lending aid to the Assassin, and he never knew the price there would be to such help; nothing came for free, Daud learnt. Perhaps he couldn’t even pay his price, but now was too late to ask.

                “It _will_ take a while. Next time do put some effort to send a letter.” He lectured, before making a quick movement that made Daud wince away by instinct. Naturally, he thought the intention was to hit him, and he was not letting that sort of privilege come again when he did nothing wrong _yet._

                But he knew he had been played either way, as his cigarette now rested between the Witch’s fingers, with the dexterity of a thief on long and lithe fingers, ending in murky black long nails; they looked specially surreal as they brought the crow’s prize to his lips and took a deep drag of it, one that he could feel being held within his lungs for instant longer than it was needed. The action was familiar, but he didn’t allow himself the slimmer of sympathy – instead he glared to the Witch knowingly immune to it.

                “Don’t be so petty.” He said, finally letting go of the smoke and taking a second, deep drag of the rolled up tobacco, before finally handing it back to the Assassin. Before he let go of that smoke, he disappeared in blue light before his eyes, and only then did Daud let go of the breath he was holding within his lungs.

                He thought of throwing the thing on the floor, step on it just to spite the creature and whatever thoughts of the Witch and his antics and his eyes, that had been annoyed but also, read into Daud’s own thoroughly before he was gone. What he concluded, he had the feeling he would never know, but it saw much more than the Knife himself could tell from the mirror and his own mind. Instead, he brought the cigarette to his lips, warping his lips around the filter and allowed himself to finish it until it had nowhere else for him to hold, and it began to heat up his lips, so he let it fall to the ground as he killed it with his boot and licked his lips.

                Corvo tasted of strong coffee and homemade dark bread.

                The Knife ended up finding Billie and Thomas sitting outside, masks under their arms and a mug each as they put their feet close to the heater to warm them up. They took off their gloves, and by the edge of gelid fingers they hate what seemed like grilled sandwiches.

                The workers that had been there now were nowhere on sight, and the two Whalers replaced them by sitting by the heater as they let the small bit of sunlight adorn their faces, but at this time of the year, it didn’t seem to heat at all. The cold air ruffled their hair a little bit and Daud sighed, perhaps for the fifth time this day as he put his hands to his waist. “This doesn’t seem like patrolling.”

                It was Billie that cared enough to answer, after she swallowed an especially dry piece of her sandwich, and doused it in her throat with coffee and milk that steamed from her can-made mug. “Don’t be so stiff, Daud. The alarms at the factory over there ringed and the workers all left running to start the shift. There is no one here anymore, just us. And yes, we are keeping an eye open. It is just nicer to do it with warm drinks and warm feet.”

                “You should try some of this, sir. It’s grilled whale sandwich, and it’s very tasty.” Thomas added, as he gestured to the sandwich on his hands, which Billie nodded to. “Do it. And when you go in there, pay the bill, will you?”

                Daud couldn’t find a curse that could match exactly his exasperation, but minutes later of seeing no one, he allowed himself to stop mulling it over, ‘sulking like an old man’ Billie informed, and he dared to take a seat.

                Corvo took long enough that the bill got a little too large, and he ended up drying the damn thing just so they would silence. The coffee with ox milk, despite being obviously watered, was decent. He paid it as he noticed the figure approaching, and shooed the Whalers off with a gesture. He would rather they didn’t make the connection of Witch and Whalers, for he wasn’t sure whom was the worse influence to the other, and he didn’t want to find out.

                But what he had to admit was that going out of the Rudshore Waterfront was a little too refreshing, and he liked the sight of the Witch walking – he didn’t have the mind to be distracted, but that was the thing of distractions; trying to avoid being distracted was a distraction in itself. He knew not how to filter him out, he couldn’t stop the way the Void seemed to rush under the world every time he saw Corvo walking closer, just like a shark coming closer, a hawk, beating its wings and tilting them as his body balanced itself and those talons swung forward and unfurled to grasp its target. Breathtaking, slow and quizzical and made him watch; the sort of presence that silenced whatever room that he walked in.

                Daud had the talent to do that, he was told he did the exact same. It wasn’t due to him, though, but due what he did. His profession was an complex one, and he had seen much. Fear was not something that haunted him, and people were not _people_ to his eyes, but targets, pieces on a game and he was the shepherd. He herded people, he played them and moved them by the thousands. He was superior, he saw it from another angle, he was _distant._

_He was wolf to men._

                And it had a presence, a weight to his features as we walked, as he talked. It was on the air. Or had been once, before it seemed like he grew a conscience. Before her. It wasn’t a trait of his lost forever, it was just that the world changed under his feet. Weepers didn’t cower at Master Assassins, neither did the rats, nor did Witches. It was another world that he didn’t reign over anymore. A wolf didn’t hunt underwater or on the skies. He wasn’t above everything like he thought.

                His eyes could appreciate a hawk or perhaps a _crow._ A rogue, skilled hunter in the dark, that took upon foreign winds and was never lost on that vast world. That tricked cages and traps and there was no place too high, a puzzle too enigmatic or a target too far out of its reach. It was contrast, and it was beautiful and _terrifying_. He hadn’t figured out what would win in a fight, and he didn’t want to know.

                Those boots, he noted, didn’t click as he walked. It was almost a pity. “The Legal District is quite far. There will be time to catch up with the information about the Barrister.”

                Corvo just stood, his arms crossed as he adjusted his cloak of feathers around his shoulders, his hair a little bit wet still – he even took the time to bathe, Daud noticed. While it felt like some sort of mockery to the fact he was waiting, it also sounded reasonable. He had been at the kitchen.

                “Let’s get started then.” The Witch said, as he took a deep breath and sprinted forward – Daud had noted that he always took some space to do his change, either midfall or rushing forward as the shadows that swallowed him and spread like a cloud of smoke, it followed the movement. As if he entered a tunnel, where it was uncertain what was what, what went where, and the Void swallowed everything to replace it by something new; it required movement to be delivered.

                When the bird took into the air, Daud just followed to the farthest rooftop in his sight, and looked up at the bird passing over his head. He signalled for the Whalers to follow from a distance, and transversing away almost at the same pace in which the bird cut the skies and embraced the torrents of air, there was a whole of Dunwall to cross, which they did on mostly silent until they reached the District, where Daud walked enough to listen to the black bird that rested its wings by landing on his shoulder.

                He shooed it away countless of times, but gave it up a long while later. It seemed better to just listen to what it had to see and hurry the bird away from him. And so he heard, and spoke as well.

                Delilah, apparently, had been the apprentice of a baker at the Dunwall Tower, young and raised close by the Empress Jessamine on her teenage years. Corvo mentioned seeing more than that tying them close. A connection of blood was there, either half-sisters or something of the like, that the black bird hadn’t heard of anyone but its _talents_ – it didn’t say witchcraft – told him instead. Together they broke something of value and in her youth foolishness; the young Empress pointed all the guilt towards Delilah, who was thrown out with her mother to the streets.

                A cruel life awaited her at the streets; the crow would muse, tilting its head as he looked at the citizens of the city under their feet. And Delilah took on many jobs through the streets; painting on the side and talented enough to study under Sokolov’s tutelage, but it didn’t last long. She didn’t fit in, perhaps by then she was already marked. Perhaps her heart was already rotten, too rotten to mingle with normal people.

                By then, Corvo knew that she began assembling her coven, but he didn’t know much about that. A group of solely Witches, whom roamed graveyards and the countryside the most. Their abilities, for the black bird, were both oddly familiar just as much as they were unknown. Similar, however he wasn’t too sure – he never caught first-hand information, and it was lost to his experience what could be true and what not. But it was a matter of time and having a closer look and perhaps it would be clear why she interested Daud in some way.

                The whereabouts of her coven and herself remained a mystery. The depth of her abilities and why the Outsider would give it to Daud to chase her, remained a mystery. That was why the Witch wanted so much to know who the owner of the ship _The Delilah_ was. Someone closer that had more understanding might have something more; whatever is it, it would have its worth. For Corvo, seemed to interest him her abilities, and them alone had an worth to Daud as well, but no more than her plans and actions did.

                On the same tune, Daud came to elaborate about what they knew of Timsh and Thalia - the worth of talking to her didn’t pass unnoticed. If Timsh had nothing of worth, or was unwilling to talk even under torture, which might be a reality considering the suggested ‘possession’, the niece seemed to have crucial information; it was worth to try bargaining a deal. He walked, and often transversed through the rooftops, and it didn’t seem to bother the bird in the slightest, now landing and holding tightly on his right glove so he wouldn’t be too close of the Assassin’s face.

                Now at least, they both knew what to look for and whom to address, which was good to have in mind as the Legal District unfurled before his sight. He spared sword and with Billie and Thomas near, neutralising enemies wasn’t so much of a bother. He avoided them altogether, but unless there was no option, they outnumbered with margin and did so silently. A chokehold or a dart, there was silence and synchrony to deliver them and much before he knew it, they met up with Thalia.

                She was, by no means, a surprising sight. Snob and upturned nose, but sharp on the way single heirs were raised to be. She boasted of the arriving presence of the Knife of Dunwall and it was enough to hear Corvo crackling a little before taking to the air. The fun he saw, either on her polite stubbornness or perhaps the silliness of boasting of such things, Daud couldn’t exactly see the same. She boasted like either the extremely rich or the extremely poor would upon signing deals with him. It was stupid and if too many people caught wind of it, soon one could find the Overseers at the doorway. They had almost an infatuation with seeing his head on a spike.

                Billie, unsurprisingly, was right about everything. The niece did want her uncle’s head and with an extra, the will at her hands. The money sounded fine as well, sweetening the deal. Was enough to keep him moving, and perhaps letting it sink into his mind that if Timsh wouldn’t talk, a knife to him could be the only way.

                Still, didn’t please him much. Sparing all guards as he made it to the Dunwall Tower and killing only the Empress wouldn’t have changed the path things took. It was the strategy, had always been. Fewer corpses, less rage, less urgency to find where he hid. Fewer corpses, less terror for the Overseers to cast over his unnatural existence and smoother work would ensue. The Whalers were told to don’t lay the blade if they could avoid it, a corpse called for less attention and while they trained for a fight, it was a risk they could avoid. There had always been like that.

                They still put down the Empress. And they would put down Timsh, he knew. He sent Billie and Thomas off to look at the District once past the walls and the gates, and he would find them at their little makeshift stash and observation spot. Billie seemed especially eager. But it was when they left that the crow tilted it’s head towards a building and blinked its dark eyes to speak – A voice that didn’t pass through beak but seemed to be whispered from everywhere and nowhere.

                _“Behind that barred door there is an aristocrat. He was wealthy, and still wears fine clothing. Not too different from every other nobleman – or is he?”_

                There was nothing surprising with seeing noblemen on the District but the comment, a little bit out of place, sounded odd on his ears. The building seemed abandoned, and the crow was intrigued. “What about it?”

                _“Some men lost everything to the plague, others, to the floods. He did too, but to a man. It darkened his heart, and I can smell the plague on him. Dying men always have requests.”_ The black bird added, and while it was not Daud’s habit to stray from what seemed like a straight line towards the hideout and the Mansion, he also knew it wouldn’t wound him to just follow the crow’s instincts.

                Perhaps he was just looking up for some reason, whatever reason and path he could take, to end up today with a blade clean and whole. He didn’t do requests for free… But also, perhaps the man could help him more than Daud would help him. He didn’t want to fiddle with locks so he went ahead to transverse to the second store, through the window and ruined flooring towards where the masked nobleman stood.

                And Corvo had a trained nose for such things indeed. A beak honed to point out almost poetic acts of revenge, and dramatic endings, if Daud was to say anything. The extra coin was also welcome.

                Finding Billie and Thomas at their makeshift Outpost alleviated a little his mind. There wouldn’t be need for blood, and with the blueprints on the tiled rooftop made him realise how much work some of them put in this. His second in command was no less talented than himself at it; and he dared to say, much more creative about her infiltrations, even if she liked to hold no witnesses alive, if they crossed paths.

                Dead men tell no lies, she would say. But also, it just uttered truths, to those that stopped to hear. The men he killed indeed told no lies; just the truth to their end and surroundings, for whomever had the ability to hear. And the path he left behind him, full of rotten mouths, seemed especially _loud_ on what they shared, and the tales they told had no shadow of lie.

                Billie enjoyed her walk with a chorus behind, just he had enjoyed when he was younger and those voices couldn’t reach him on the dark. Perhaps, her own restlessness didn’t allow her to hear. Maybe, like him, the bloodied path sure did have some weight on her heart, but they never knew how to take the most difficult path – wolves didn’t herd sheep, they controlled and bit and took lives. To learn how to herd and play with the cattle without losing one, that seemed out of their nature. His instincts would still tell him to use his sword before everything else.

                Maybe she would, with time, be a little more like him. Maybe, he would go past this sudden bout of weight, and he would relish once more on telling the world to set itself on fire and flames, and he would be a little more like her – and she would allow him and the world to forget this moment.

                The world on flames, however, seemed a lot less interesting to tread on. Wouldn’t be as peaceful as the moments Dunwall still held – there wouldn’t be so much chaos at the streets, and he wouldn’t be able to leave his sword on its hilt and hold a crow on his glove, that watched the world as the pair of eyes that guarded his back and saw deeper than through the walls and bones and sinew.

                He knew not where some of these ties led to, but Daud could very much see a use of a Witch close within his reach instead of a half-time man servant. He wondered what happened to him if his host was hurt, would those fangs bury on his furless neck instead? Would someday he find out that the hound thrown on the river had his Witch within? That those dark eyes of the beast were those that watched afar and sometimes, very closely on the Knife’s features as if over his skin was written his past, present and future.

                The pub was no place for such creature, nor did he trust him too close of where it mattered. But perhaps by the end of this, with the right investment, Dunwall would come to hear of another Witch and its coven, and the Overseers would tremble with fear as instead of the knife, the child that dreamt of whales and the endless void would find a cloak of feathers to cry under and be understood and protected by. Where ailments were healed through concoctions he had seen his mother craft times ago, boosted by the supernatural and talented children wouldn’t be left roaming anymore.

                A less chaotic Dunwall, that would lift from the smoke of tyranny and plague and the terrors of the Watch and the Abbey.

                It was a dream, a distant one that he wouldn’t deliver with his hands, but perhaps he would see it starting up a little. What he could do to see it coming to happen, he would do. It wouldn’t clear the price of his head or the weight of his soul, but alas, it also had its worth to see revolving.  It could be a Dunwall where there wouldn’t be more children than he could afford to house and teach and turn into killers. A Dunwall where he wasn’t needed anymore – even though an assassin was always needed, perhaps there wouldn’t be so much demand.

                A faraway illusion. One that was interrupted as he walked through the Apartments, and found a bookshelf lit from behind, with the forlorn blue and purple colour that the whale oil lamps let out, whenever surrounded by a room draped in exquisite purple and blue cloths, tied around a shrine that he didn’t need to see to know how they loyally followed the pattern. As if from the alter, spiralled a world of dark and bluish emptiness, like the dead lips of a maiden, drowned in her porcelain bathtub, after fainting as it watched the stars. For a moment, that delicate beauty was gone. Praying to the stars did not cure the plague, and bleeding eyes wouldn’t be cured by thermal baths.

                Corvo took flight from his hand, just to stand by his side and watch the shrine with knowing eyes.  By his side, so did Billie and Thomas, none standing ahead as the Witch took a deep breath. “Whatever he will tell me, won’t have half the worth of what he will tell you.”

                The crow seemed to have no interest on the runes, perhaps on making them but they didn’t disappear on his palm. The rules Daud was under, the Witch was free of – or perhaps had to follow others. He created them, not consumed. Billie just rubbed her hands on the corner, the Outsider always had interest to spare about the Leviathan; like a child, she still would ask for him to tell what he could of the Outsider, her age just made her more mindful of what questions she made, but they were no less genuine.

                “…I have always wondered – what does he smell like? Rotting flesh?  Wildflowers? Does he ask you questions? I wonder when he will talk to me.” Predictably, she uttered the unusual but simple question. She was full of them, curious on ways he wasn’t anymore.

                “Of nothing.” Daud answered shortly, moving to take off his gloves carefully, he would rather have it on his palms were he could feel his fingers growing gelid and frostbitten from the touch of the Void, but then warmed by the rune that he would carry on his hand. Sometimes, the piece was too fragile for him to thoughtlessly grasp with his glove, even if afterwards it would be ash.

                Corvo, whom remained quiet whenever close to the Whalers, somewhere within his mind he must have sensed Daud wouldn’t like to cross the two worlds – he put such awareness aside to shake his head slowly. “Speak for yourself.”

                It seemed to stop the argument where it stood. For Daud, the scent of the room didn’t change, but it brimmed on his nose, grew stale but acidic, as if inhaling fumes and feeling them burn. Didn’t smell like anything in special, but Corvo – either thing happened differently for him, or he could tell further of what Daud did. He didn’t kneel down in front of his shrines anymore; he didn’t do so in a long while in fact. And without much regalia, he moved forward to take the rune.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will interest you more. You can comment then what you think. ;)


	8. Late Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the mission Eminent Domain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up bad boys and girls, we ain't done. Another 9k words for ya. I parted the chapters and left the best on this piece here, to be honest.
> 
> Part two of 'my heart hurts and Serkonans arguing don't make it any better'.
> 
> If by the end of this, I don't twist your insides enough with worry and wits and things, then I give up trying to win your heart. Its hopeless. You don't have a heart, dearest. You have a freezer for ribcage and a hamster wheel pumps your blood. Seriously.

**_"Late Goodbye."_ **

_"Parting is such a sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."_

**_\- William Shakespeare ; Romeo and Juliet_ **

 

__

 

                It was almost a trap from the ethereal being, which took the opportunity that he reached for the item to ambush and give it a price, one Daud had been happy that he didn’t have to pay for a long while. His words brought no comfort, neither did they make him feel proud. Now, he saw another enemy on the being, one that despised him and his antics and ridiculed him for the strength he now was pushing the world one last time, towards another end. Interesting? Maybe yes, but a distant interest. He didn’t call for the being in the Void anymore, when he was ready to surprise. He didn’t grin at the Leviathan and promise him the show he so wanted – and then delivered it, much to the deity’s marvel.

                He had been young and he had taken to a passion to sweep through his cultists and show who was the favourite, throw their devotion down the drain and show what being favoured truly looked like. He would laugh at their marvel and terror, and he would paint the Outsider as a betraying God when it was in fact, indifferent to their ends but interested solely on his. He had reeled on that superiority and he had been energetic to see the extremes in which he could reach and reap and tear. But now he could see; for what?

                That had served him nothing, which he knew was true but that boost to his ego hadn’t been worth it either. Things grew bitter, stale and boring when the deity asked him where were the offerings, the bloodshed, and the surprises it was clearly fond of. Daud didn’t regret the concerts he had weaved solo, which must have confused the creature or intrigued it, but it interested him no more to give the Leviathan the pleasure. He had no worth pleasing anymore and instead of chaos alone, loud and for one being to hear, he would rather close the theatre doors, and take on a band to play for their own interest.

                 Hadn’t been a kind departure. He shed away the Outsider who gave him so much, and put him aside when his attention interested no more. He had been amused, and bid Daud farewell as if they wouldn’t even cross paths again. He could have stripped his being of his powers, but he didn’t. Instead, the Leviathan let him walk out on him. The Whale God never let him forget that despite most, Daud was still entertaining to see. _He would never stop being._

                _“Daud.”_ He spoke, on the same quiet voice of always, just a bit louder than the vibrations of the whalebone on his hand. His fingers froze, and the darkness seemed to spiral behind him, shimmering with a light that must have been the only sort of light that habited the depths he lived. His dark eyes were adapted to emptiness, to see where for anyone else would be too dark to see anything.

                Every day that passed, he felt he was a step closer to drowning and even closer of seeing what laid besides the spots of light that strayed on the depths. A little closer to seeing through the mist, almost reaching the dark. But only _almost._

                _“Pretentious for you to think that.”_ He said, entertained and offering to the Master Assassin one of his silent smiles, with the tilt of his head that in a man, the Knife would identify mockery and why not, knowing who spoke, a bit of flattery. Despite his indifference, he had the vanity of a man. _“You think you are any closer of seeing than those less gifted than you? Closer than Delilah? Closer than Corvo?”_

                Like his fingers, his spine grew gelid; like dreaming with the Leviathan, and transversing through the Void, colder like the bottom of the ocean. It was cold like indifference, but also a bit of bitterness. His pretention might not be correct to have, but it was entertaining and proving the Outsider he was right, every time. Everything spun to the deity’s liking and revolved on his favour; there were no closed doors on the theatre he owned, but surprises showed, new pieces came forth that he didn’t predict – but never out of his control. It was a freeing thought, and he answered firmly. “Yes.”

                _“You amuse me. But no, you are the blindest, and perhaps because of it, you walk so steadily. It isn’t enough anymore, however. You are no longer the most interesting.”_ He said, with a tongue that brushed close enough to his lips, enough for the Assassin to follow with his eyes; almost as if it was too delectable to keep information from him, or hard to don’t give a piece of mind. But that creature wasn’t enticing like he had been for Daud once either, not at all. The Outsider didn’t interest or deserve worship and attention from Daud either.

                It was one of the rare times he saw the creature laugh – a soft sound, light and sweet and terrifying as he did so, a simple rush of air through his lips with a musical tune, with a touch of depth that didn’t belong to him, but it seemed like far away under the Isle, a creature sang with him. One or millions, gathered and making the fibres of the world tremble. Terrifyingly beautiful. _“Still you surprise, you never ceased to. Very well, here’s one last lesson, Daud, for the old time’s sake.”_

_“The Barrister is a champion at finding his enemy’s weak points, but he didn’t see Delilah as a threat until it was too late. No one’s watching Delilah now, except you and Corvo. And me of course. I see everything. I see forever, and right now, I see a man walking a tightrope over a sea of blood and filth. The Empress is dead, and the water is rising.”_

For a moment, he looked down at him, bowing a little his back to look deeper into his eyes, as if anything there was hidden from the Leviathan. There was nothing in there he couldn’t see, but still it leaned forward, with something akin to a frown to his young features. _“You’ve got Rothwild packed into a crate bound for the frozen north, Daud. Surprisingly clean work for a man with so much blood on his hands. Did the Empress change you? Or do you think this will help you dodge what’s coming?”_

                If the Leviathan haunted for an answer back, a retort from the Assassin that used to don’t take such taunts and let it pass unnoticed, and was always followed with the desire to prove him wrong – this time Daud offered him nothing but his unmoving gaze. _“You’d better hurry. You’re running out of rope. And of people to rely on.”_

                There was no space or time for him to stretch this banter on. Whenever the being decided he was done, his vision would darken and he would leave Daud to wake up in a jump, with a retort clogged on his throat. He could surprise in many ways; this wasn’t one. The Outsider took pleasure on leaving him wondering, and when the world seemed to brighten up and move around him, he knew they were done for now.

                The Knife only sighed as he turned around and caught the two figures watching him; the familiar masks that could be told apart just as much as the figures they dressed. The uniforms were almost the same, but he could tell them apart even with his eyes closed. From the silence, Thomas; and from the restlessness and mirrored similarity, Billie. “You were on a daze; I hope it was enlightening.”

                “Hardly.” He said, sighing as he looked around and despite the two pairs of glass goggles watching him, there wasn’t the traditional dark eyes of the bird, nor the Witch himself, thus he stayed at the room no more.

                The Outsider didn’t need to say the same thing more than once; just once was more than enough for him to be feel bothered, and for those same waves rock from side to side in his skull, repeating it without ever losing its strength. Running out of people to trust. He couldn’t tell if that comment was about the past, the present or the future itself. Might not be something within his reach, but that revolved somewhere and he wasn’t even aware of what was happening.

                 If it was near, he would have noticed losing allies on his network; he had been dealing with it not too long. There were crucial allies in fabrics, gangs and officers of the Watch, certainly some of them would be a trouble to replace; but it didn’t feel like it was at the stake. And knowing the Outsider, he wouldn’t be concerned over so little. To Daud, he was left with another riddle to solve, and a strange desire to just return to the most hidden corner of Dunwall, recess back to the Chamber of Commerce and go through the paperwork that would speak more clearly than the Leviathan.

                He couldn't leave just yet, however. The reason was sitting, perched on a table with his heeled boots standing between the double doors of the balcony, where came in the light, and Daud's on line of sight; and Outsider's eyes, did they shine. Not too clean, not too dirty, still the fine piece of wear was given justice as long, lithe legs were crossed at the knee and one reflected just enough light to distract for a moment too long where he lost himself in thinking of the care behind their glossed state, and the legs caught within.

                Witchcraft, that made him lose track of his thoughts, of his control over himself and the desires his heart pulled at him to follow against the will of his mind. He licked his lips slowly, on the edge of his upper row of teeth - a reflex, almost, as he watched the creature of Void look up from the notes he was reading to meet his eyes. Bloodstains in waterlogged paper, caught against black ink nails and those black inked eyes that looked up to him, and waved off the air as if hurrying off smoke, along whatever worry Daud had in mind. 

                 "Found some notes, that is all. I got curious as to what is on the bag." He said, as he looked at thr corner of the room where the bag stood.

                Although they had all read Roland's journal and knew what to do with it, it didn't smell any better from the awareness. Corpses of the plague seemed to take longer to rot than any other body; they remained there even after buried with salt, they reeked and the maggots wouldn't crawl near it, the moths wouldn't eat the flesh but perhaps live on it, reproducing and laying eggs but never putting an end to the pile of disease that didn't vanish. The Flooded District would be an eternal graveyard for the bodies didn't become bones; they wandered until they fell, inflating and wrinkling as they rotted, passing slowly by every stage of decomposition.

                An awful sight that they grew far too used to see, but alas, no less unpleased by it. Daud had no desire to occupy his hands and attention with it, neither he wanted to lose the Witch from his sight again; to him, it was more than convenience but a need to put Billie and Thomas to carry it. As if they could sense the request, they had grown silent and small in the shadows. 

                "Billie. You know the plants of the mansion. You and Thomas make sure this get to the air cleaning machines. We reassemble at the Outpost." The Knife stated, simple and without room for argument, which made both Whalers sigh through their masks. He couldn't blame them. He didn't want to put his hands on it either. If only one person had to, perhaps it was best if it was only one of them. 

                With Billie navigating, it ended up that Thomas was the unlucky soul. He watched them go before rubbing his temples a little; now he ought to keep his two eyes on the Witch whom slowly got up to walk to the balcony and see the ones of the Barrister's house, two and three that they could clearly see above the ground level, with a ceiling as tall as two stores themselves. The architecture of the estates of Dunwall was something to praise indeed, if only it wasn't so disheartening to see some put all they had in a house that impressed, but when the flood waters seeped in, there was nothing left of that heritage but a sinking mansion, that in many years would sink fully into the wet dirt underneath.

                Architecture certainly was something marvellous to have seen and have had the privilege of studying a little at the Academy; but still, it was not the most enticing sight from the doorway of the balcony, no. 

                It was what made him notice that while he was decent at Natural Philosophy, he dared to say, might even have made a good philosopher out of himself, it wasn't the life for him. The Natural Philosophy he liked to follow was at the streets, strangely enough. People and their shenanigans, with the rushes of his blood as he made his life carry on when others didn't. It was what he knew after all, and more importantly, he could see himself doing until the end of times. He liked to chase leads and money and information like a specialised courier, who came to pick more than just letters but often a soul.

                But now the world seemed to be ending, perhaps he should have chased other things. Other ends. A courier of different services, and perhaps the world wouldn't feel like it was a ship sailing without a Captain, towards the edge of the world where it would fall into an endless bottom at the Void. He was no Captain, but it seemed everything he did was to keep the world sailing at full force, high mast, towards the direction of the edge. 

                Only the Leviathan underneath would laugh, when they crumbled and fell to nothing. When he stopped watching and joined Corvo at the balcony, he took just a moment longer to watch the streets underneath, and the way loose curls of hair fell everywhere when he looked down; just to tangle up on feathers when he looked up to the balcony of the mansion before them.

                "You didn't like what he said, did you?" He asked, and he was sure Corvo could see and hear many things, but the exact words the Leviathan had given him weren't one of them. Still, he could certainly see the dark stain it had left on the Assassin's heart, a growing lump on his head, beating with worry, but not the details of the cause. 

                He shook his head, to answer his question. "No. When he starts speaking in riddles it means there is nothing good ahead."

                Something must have crossed his mind, enough to make the Witch chuckle and make Daud hold that moment for a little; hold the image of his teeth, white against dark lips and the wrinkles on his face that signalled too much of his Serkonan descent. It was on angled jaws and long but thin noses, high cheekbones that were constantly brushed by thick lashes; the contour of his eyes,  something akin to the strips of hawks and birds of prey, with thick and dark lashes that seemed like eye lines.

                The world felt like it was sailing closer and closer to that edge and he was here, at a balcony, considering of letting it fall fully and regard nothing more as he watched. But it didn't last long, as that scenery ended and he was reminded.

                 There was a group of people on this ship that mattered. There was his guilt and it mattered. If only he was watching Delilah now, he better make a good work at it. "When he starts with the riddles it's because the rug will be pulled from under your feet indeed. But I believe it's more of a matter of how will you fall; what you will hold from taking damage, and what will go down with you."

                Summed it up perfectly, and he just moved to put one boot on the edge of the balcony, climbing it thoughtfully as he balanced himself on the edge, the metal bar caught on the middle of his feet as he watched the second and third floor - He would rather start by the second, and catch Timsh first after his document and keys. 

                "Nothing is going down with me. Second floor, Corvo." He said, before transversing away to the balcony and walking in silently. There would be guards by, he assumed, and so would Timsh - from him he wanted nothing but the papers on his body and the keys that would give to his treasury, if he had any. No one walked with a will at all times, he could safely guess. If he had something, the keys would be with himself.

                Corvo walked silently by his side, his boots making no sound or distracting much, and despite the presence of guards nearby, the Witch seemed overly confident on the soundlessness of his steps as he walked without a decrease on pace, and dared to utter back at the first corner. "The upstairs are free of people. I will meet you there."

                "No you won't." He muttered, but it was met with a flap of wings as he quickly made it outside and to the balcony above - Daud could only close his eyes for a handful of seconds to control himself from chasing the feathered creature and wrapping his hands around its thin little neck as a consequence from crossing him and his wishes. 

                 Sure Corvo appealed, attracted, lured him in like a moth to the flame every time, every moment he could spare a second to look at the creature longer and let nature take its course. He was blue and serene and unreachable like whale oil, quiet but revolved storms at times; resourceful but treacherous and reliable on a single stance, contradictory without ever proving his words and intentions false. He rocked the world with waves and surprised with his mercilessness; untameable, creature of the Void that like the ocean itself, inspired heartbroken songs. Volatile like whale oil and addictive like its fumes.

                If Daud was anything, he sure was a flame – one that Corvo was incredibly curious as to why he burnt and was also amazed at how with him, things could heat up in even more intense flames. For there was no other reason on his mind where he could conjure an alternative as to how and why he liked to poke at him so much, to pull and irk him when it clearly wasn't any good. More than once, he knew he bothered more than it was required for their working arrangements. Corvo had no reason to cross him so much. 

                He was certain the Witch did it to know until how far he could go. He did it for the sake of his own, chaotic entertainment that followed no reason, no explanation, no deity was relishing in praise and the honour of this chaos Corvo caused; settling on his bones and bewitching Daud to be unable to just turn around and forget it, put an end to such games. His defiance nagged on the nape of his neck restlessly; few things bothered Daud like Corvo did.

                He found Timsh almost accidently, through his bitter staring at every corner and roaming through pages he didn't read and drawers he didn't bother to know the contents. If he found the key he was searching or any remarkable clue, he didn't pay enough mind to realise it was before his eyes. Around a corner he found the man, bothering a servant from all things into bedding the woman. He put an end to it with a dart to her, and quickly transversing to behind the man to choke him before he even heard her fall to the floor. 

                A chokehold kept someone asleep a much shorter while than a sleep dart, so he made sure to gently lift the woman and put her on another room, locked and passing the key to her side underneath the door. She would wake up soon with the Watch evacuating the area, arresting Timsh and sending him off to the Flooded District - maybe someday he would get to witness the man walking as a Weeper through the piles of corpses.

                Would be entertaining to see, certainly, but he had little room for that on his mind. Having the keys to Timsh's treasury – a chest, a safe, a drawer, he would find out - and his letter of immunity seemed of so little importance. This time of search was more than enough to him to gather some words that were now clogged against his throat, like they always did when he was so boldly crossed and it was no good. Corvo irked him, he irked him very much. 

                It didn't seem to bother the Witch that he was a Master Assassin, and it was his lifetime work to kill and avoid being dead. If he kept the Witch close, it was due to obvious safety reasons. If that wasn't obvious enough, what could be? He could try beating him into obedience but that was as far as he could get. The air and the echoes on his mind still reflected on that offense, and his cheek had suffered from very sharp knuckles in return that he would rather not have again. Also, his nose still hurt constantly - he wouldn't like to see all of Devon's work going down the drain by irking Corvo.

                But all of this had been thought to shield the Witch from being angered but nothing on Daud's side to keep _him_  from being angered. Two hounds in a pit, but he was the only one that couldn't bite back. As if he would just allow someone to go at least without an earful from him - and if it angered the Witch so be it, he wasn't so frightened of Witches anyway, and let whatever come to be; Daud was Serkonan. His blood was hot, thick and inflammable. 

                When he caught Corvo on his sight, he was at Timsh's office and he transversed to the Witch to catch him by his arm. In his surprise, he turned in a jump and stepped back, and the Master Assassin had no objection to press his knuckles against the wallpaper as he pinned the Witch's arm there, and raised his finger to his face before his wide, dark eyes.

                "You listen here for you will tell you only  _once;_ you don't leave my sight unless I-" He growled, but he never got to finish it as Corvo's very heavy hand slapped his hand away and he stood on the point of his heeled boots to look at Daud in the eye; and for a moment, Daud  _feared._

                It had never seemed smart to try and push around the Witch to begin with but it didn't matter. There was just so much petulance he could take from the Witch before throwing care out of the window and telling it to sink in the Void as well. He hated repeating himself, assuming unnecessary risks and feeling like this too was out of his reach; and the control was being taken from his hands. It had never been his, but he was losing what he had. He was losing the feeling it was his to control at least. And he hated it. 

                But also, Corvo seemed to hate to wait and be cropped up his liberties on just the same amount. For a Witch that was used to service work, he shouldn't be so hard to break into following a few simple rules. 

                It had never been heard, written or mentioned, however, that there was a hierarchy. Daud needed it to have some resemblance of order but there wasn't an order. He was used to dealing with fish and squids but he never got to face sharks, not the sort as big as him. He was unprepared for the bite, and the seriousness and weight of the gaze he received, in a sudden drop, reminded him he was in for fighting in the same weight and power.

                 He actually ate up his words when Corvo answered him with the same hot blooded growl. With him, it sounded a lot more  _inhuman._ "You don't put your finger on my face again or I'm taking it off.  _You_ will listen here."

                But alas, Daud was no less hot blooded, and despite having his hand blown away and from what it felt like, scratched too from his black nails, he raised it again without a thought as he raised his voice.  _"To the Void with you, damn Witch-"_

                This time when he was interrupted, it took a couple seconds for it to sink that it was a very heavy palm that imprinted all five fingers to the side of his face, the sort that sounded so loud, he was sure the Duke in Tyvia could hear along the echo on his ear, and the Leviathan laughed at him from the Void. The whole world seemed to shake for a very brief moment as anger was something that burned, boiled and steamed on him through every moment of this. The worst thing yet, was that he wasn't even  _heard._ For he was right at the end, he knew he was right and he wasn't even given the moment to speak. 

                He didn't have a reaction. Corvo, stared at him with a mirror of the same frustrated anger, but painted over that face he was used to serene sharpness. The Master Assassin wished he could just look away and leave and sod the rest of the world but it didn't exist anymore, outside his funnelled sight there was just this. 

                The curve of his brows that gave intensity to black eyes and burned, they burned on the silence of that second that held. It was so intense and burned with something so mysterious, a mix of them that must have made Daud absolutely profane to hear for a second longer. Something burned to make him as insufferable as the Witch was for him. It burned and held the world still, as Corvo had his lips parted in a moment, filling his lungs with air to scream just as loud at him in return - or perhaps, to just punch him this time. His face was dark as a whole, flushed with  _hate_ and what a terrifying thing to be target of, as he filled his lungs to curse the Assassin to the Void as well.

                Daud was caught on the same hold. Holding his arm so tightly, almost as if holding a viper by his teeth; too terrified of letting go in the slightest and having it turn around and bite his mouth. He wasn't sure what he would even do if it was his turn to act - it felt like it was. He just stared, just as wide eyed and frozen and the world, in that one single moment it took for him to straighten up from the hit now painted on his face, it held there with adrenaline howling on his ears with his heartbeats.

                Perhaps now was kill or die, he thought. His blood rushed so much that it felt like it was the next step. He saw himself in those eyes; offended, prideful, hot-blooded, powerful and  _merciless,_ just catching his breath to see the world crumbling to pieces and take turns no one ever expected to. Those eyes had it been on the mirror, the next thing he would see was his sword. Daud could feel his body primed, _aching_ for the sword. Corvo was just as willing to see everything ruin like a house of cards before he lost the control the Witch had on the world. He was just as willing to  _kill_ to assert his sovereignty over himself. And just like Daud terrified, sure did Corvo as well.

                And the oceans held themselves suspended for a moment between the sharks, unmoving and still. Until Corvo did the first move. His nails were sharp and they dug almost though his coat and shirt as he gripped his shirt, and pulled him down just enough for his mouth to reach his. 

                Corvo had the advantage of seconds, as he took on to his mouth with teeth, tongue and anger; for that second of confusion, the Knife offered no resistance and soldiers didn't take to arms. 

                A second later, and he let go of his arm to put his hands at the wall, then at his sides, then at his waist. He engaged, and it was intoxicating, and there was so much to do, and so much to still say, clogged on his throat. His hands felt huge against his waist, but had felt small to grasp his arms. There was so much to explore, and so little patience; his blood rushed for war to be weaved to the Void and back, while Corvo's touch burn.

                It wasn't as synchronised as it was fast, but it had some rhythm. Sometimes he could feel his teeth against the Witch's and while it was awful, it didn't intimidate. The reward was a mouth that opened wider, and room for him to fight for the lead of a dance that didn't truly matter; it was war, and they were the same, and he adored it enough to keep it going forever but truth was, they both would bite to death and would die washed ashore, burned under the hot sun of the beach. Through Daud’s bites and his, he couldn’t determine a winner and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

                When they ran out of air, there were still many shots to give and take, and much more coal and oil to burn. His hands that felt huge on his waist, felt small under his thighs when he raised them around his waist and slammed his back against the wall hard enough to make the lights rattle. Daud showed talented when he focused on one thing at a time; he had claimed a bite on his lower lip and followed the way to his jaw and further down, trailing down his skin in hunger, heat, possession. That he was delicious to devour he knew already, but he didn’t know he was addictive.

                He wouldn't ever find a way to wash this scent from his lungs, of spices and sweetness, and the way his hair brushed against his nose and how it felt against his mouth to slide his tongue over his pulse point, run his teeth over his skin and bite, sucking to colour the mark he was putting there. One thing at a time, one pillar at each swing, he was putting down his Witch's reign over him. "You... don't bloody... listen..."

                Corvo was, by no means, powerless or without talent. The reason why he bit and not kiss was in retaliation of the Witch's crafts; although he was sure Corvo would say it was the other way around. His clawed fingers dug into his slickened hair and he tugged, and pulled, and led the Assassin's mouth to where he wanted to as if it was on his control still, everything and anything and more, on his hands to lead.. He used him, bending him to his whims and his talons dug on his shoulder enough he could hear the coat rip under his blackened nails.

               He trapped just as much as he was trapped, he hurt and pleased and demanded, self-claimed king and thoroughly worshipped. His heels dug on the back of Daud's back, into his spine like one would spur a beast as he tugged at him and demanded his will through gasps and sounds; his panting was musical, and each bite ruined the peace like gunshots in the air with the groan that was too sweet and lewd for him to don't feel like making more. In retaliation, his heels would dig into him and Daud would press him harder against the wall with his body, a growl against his neck as his hips pressed against his.

“ _Witch.”_ He growled, and meant it as an offence. The Witch used him, it was clear, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. "Please, Daud,  _stop talking._ "

                And for once, he obeyed, gladly so.

               His coat was coming undone under the tugging of his nails, pulling at it until he complied with letting the Witch tug off the shoulders off him. One defeat, for the sake of winning the war - who was even counting anyway? He had no idea which shark was going to survive the longest - not win, there were no winners - but also, he didn't care. It sounded marvellous to just die trying and adrenaline was going to kill him before the end, Corvo was his end and his skin was hot through his clothes even through Daud's gloves.

                "Daud." He muttered, and it was wet, and lewd, and absolutely delicious to break the melody as he put another mark of his claim against his neck, and felt his whole body  _curl_ around him, pulling him closer and driving him a little crazier every second. His nails against the nape of his neck left, even though he was adoring them there; they were half encouragement, and half threat.  _"Daud!"_

                The last one had a trace of alarm, and he raised his head to look at Corvo just to see his hands covering his mouth and nose and when he  _breathed_ he understood the matter perfectly. 

                It was so awful his eyes watered. It was the stench of a Weeper's den but tenfold worse, it reeked so intensely he coughed and Corvo's legs unwrapped from around him and he adjusted his overcoat to feel the key on his pocket, twinkling as he looked around, covering his face and nose with his arm. 

                There had been more than enough time to find the will, but they hadn't even started. "The will, Corvo."

               It seemed to click some sort of memory or mild connection on the Witch's mind and they quickly put themselves to action. Each moved to a side and corner, but the stench was not easy to avoid and it just got worse by time. As he searched, he could hear Corvo opening windows and drawers and a painting caught his attention. A painting, bright coloured on the wall, almost impossible to avoid, seemed to lure his attention but Daud saw little of it before Corvo brought it down, breaking the frame with his heel and cutting the edge to take the canvas.

             He wasn’t a painter, but it felt disheartening to see the Witch rip and tear the edges to steal the piece. But he didn’t stay to watch for long; his feet took him far, opening doors as he was led through a small storeroom where he stopped, forgetting for a moment the stench to have a look at the statue he now stood before on. 

              He had never thought much about Delilah, how she must have looked like or the antics she might be up to. He didn't give it much mind, and for an instant, he couldn't recognise anything of importance on the statue; the sleek face of the woman, wrapped in thorns and roses, meant nothing to him. The rune on the corner of the room was more meaningful, as he searched for the safe, a treasure or anything of the sort. 

              When he looked at her, however, he somewhat had no doubt then. It was some sort of recognition before she moved, and before her mocking tune of recognition reached his ears. Looking at her, it seemed to ache on the back on his mind, a new awareness that this was the woman he was looking for. 

              "Who are you?" And stone moved, just like the rumours said, moved with fluid weaves of hand and the change of weight from one foot to the other. Moved on the small gestures and the certainty of movement, and the statue with its colourless eyes, held a voice that seemed distant,  _wrong,_ but also, completely vivid and he liked to think, just as loyal to the woman. It was embedded in something wicked, and the stone seemed too bright and new – on ways just stone didn’t seem to be. Stone wasn’t ever young, but this one seemed like it hadn’t stopped changing since the moment of its creation.

                 As if it hadn’t ever stopped _moving_ from the moment it had been cut. Or perhaps, it was her craft that didn’t allow them to ever stop still.

               _"I understand your curiosity. I'm strange. I was a baker's apprentice at the Dunwall Tower, a friend to Jessamine when we were little girls. Then - afterward - I made my name as a painter. Now, I'm obviously something much greater. I hope that satisfies you, because you won't get more."_

              No, it didn't satisfy, that much he knew himself and it didn't help. But alas, he wondered if the Witch could see him through that statue, and if so, one thing he knew was that he wouldn't stay here any longer even if he could, even if the smell of a Weeper’s den wasn’t so strong, it blurred his vision.

               _"I ought to just kill you, but I'm going to give you a warning for the sake of my sisters, who were very impressed with you once upon a time: stay away from me. There are great changes coming and I'll expect you to don't interfere. I have influences at places you won't expect; But as for Arnold Timsh? Do what you want, I won't hold a grudge. I'm done with him."_

              And through his tearstained sight, the statue stiffened again back to her initial position. He didn't have a second longer to dwell on it however; it would have to wait for him to arrive at the Chamber of Commerce, or at the very least, to get out of here. His eyes led to the doorway, where Corvo watched the statue still, and even through his watering eyes he could see the other's need to see more. It was for this he was here, after all. Not deals, Thalia, Timsh or wills. For him, interested to have a closer look at that statue but it was insufferable to stay a second longer. 

              He ought to make up for it. It tasted like the Witch didn’t get his side of the deal – and of Weeper, of course. "There is a chest on his bedroom, I can't open."

              Wherever he must hide the will Thalia wanted, was definitely somewhere locked. He walked past the man, to go get the will and as quickly as possible out of the mansion, having almost no time to check if this was indeed the paper before transversing away, Corvo doing so not too far behind as he walked over the apartments, coughing and spitting away the flavour of the Weeper's den that became the mansion. 

             From the outside and the rooftops, he slowed down enough to see Timsh stumbling outside and arguing, waving his hands in protest and speaking of an infiltration, about how someone much have stolen his documents and how this was treachery and things weren’t as they should have been.

                Roland wouldn’t live long, the black bird had told him, and upon looking closer his eyes where whitish, milky like those who began weeping. Perhaps that was what the mask stood for, to avoid recognition and seeing the blood that never stopped flowing from whatever orifices it could escape. A man with nothing less to hold on, that didn’t home to see bloodshed but give a cruel man the flavour of vengeance. He would eventually be allowed out of that building by the Watch, and he would get to hear what perhaps, would give him peace before the end.

                He would weep, yes, but perhaps of joy. It had a good flavour, he hadn’t thought how much before. Hadn’t felt at all interesting to nail Rothwild into a crate but give someone so much pleasure, and see the poetic justice happening there, he couldn’t help but to smile a little bit. There was a fine line of justice and revenge, revenge was never justice – but certainly it was much more pleasurable. The world spun with it, and doused correctly, it didn’t bring too much chaos as the mighty fell. Revenge was a sweet thing, and he had the sensation that in the dark corners all around Dunwall, the Weepers smiled a little.

                Corvo caught up with him on the rooftops, transversing his blueish, delicate transversal with the canvas warped up and tied under his arm. He wasn’t sure what else had Corvo taken from the mansion, but certainly wouldn’t be enough to suffice the inability to see that statue a little more closely. He sighed, reaching for inside his jacket as he took a cigarette – whatever he could do to subdue the intensity of the smell of Weeper, a smell so thick that from here and the contrast of the light, he could see it falling from the third and second floors, cascading down the windows and balcony as the air carried the thick gas and dust and remnants of an unfortunate soul.

                Lighting it up, he looked at the mansion then at the Witch – He looked a bit rustled up from his serenity, feathers and hair a bit messier, but a mess difficult to compare to Daud’s hair. Daud looked mangled, scratched by a hawk too adamant on giving him scars, but on the same way, Corvo looked like he had been caught by a wolf a little too unruly for him to manage.

                As he smoked, he ran his tongue on the edge of his upper teeth; he couldn’t tell what had happened, wrong or right, he wasn’t sure what to call it and it didn’t sway either way for him – had been exhilarating, like only correct deliverances of swings, in a frenzy of training that felt especially rewarding on his bones. But also, not something he knew what to do with. For Corvo, it might sound as a mistake as far as he knew even though it hadn’t _sounded_ like a mistake when he had the Witch in his arms.

                And what a sensation it had been, what a privilege and what a danger. If he was any wiser, he would politely withdraw and state he didn’t want to see it happening again – not a mistake, but not the closely a Master Assassin should have with anyone; one that he also didn’t feel like having. And he would leave, without feeling the Witch within his grasp again and that would be _wise_. Seeing Delilah, so powerful and entwined with a powerful enough to make him so blindly warped around her fingers; up to this day, still terrified and enamoured to the woman of thorns; didn’t seem only wise to step back, but common sense even.

                Daud could see himself falling prey to the same, not seeing the threat before it was too late; Delilah and the Outsider seemed to be alerting of the same thing, of things he brought close and couldn’t rely on. She stood the example, and the Leviathan gave the lesson. He watched the mansion for a moment, catching his breath as he smoked and straightened his hair with his fingers. To _fear_ was wiser than to trust.

                “You got the will and the documents, Daud?” Billie asked, and the Master Assassin nodded, reaching within his overcoat and raising it a little to sight, one the immunity document, and the other the will Thalia would be very happy to have in her hands. He gave Billie the immunity papers on a second note, as he pointed to the apartment where within, would be Roland. “Give this to Roland. So he can enjoy his vengeance. “

                The red-clad assassin nodded, before vanishing and Thomas carefully folded the plans and blueprints of the house; now there was no need to keep the Outpost here, the District was mostly isolated and the person of interest was no more. Perhaps when Thalia moved into the house after it was cleaned and cleared, they would find use to those papers again, but right now it had little to no worth, and to leave them to the wind wouldn’t be beneficial either way.

                “Tell Billie to meet us at the docks, Thalia will be there.” He said, as he looked at Corvo whom found inside his dark blue overcoat a place to store the canvas, that while didn’t seem at all light, had the fabric thin enough to fold over and over again until he could secure it somewhere within his gear. And with a gesture, the dark bird took to the wind as a black bird, flapping his wings to land over the sign nearby, serving as shelter from sight to the Whalers that had taken unto themselves to watch the square and the mansion.

                It remained unspoken and in a way, while it stood on the edge of his tongue to speak something about it, he didn’t open his lips to utter a word about it.  What he would even say?  That it was bad, that he didn’t want him, that the Witch didn’t make his blood rush? Would be all lies, but alas, all of these things weren’t good either. Those reasons that he had to repeat the dose, was the same why he should take it as enough and step back.

                Also, Daud didn’t have people close; he didn’t take people as lovers. He didn’t feel the need for that wasn’t worth his time. And even if it was, he was better when he had one thing in mind and only it. He required focus and not distractions, and good or bad, Corvo was a distraction.

                Perhaps he knew exactly what to say. His reason was strong, and his will hadn’t melted away just yet; that was his choice, and he stood responsible over it. The world was still sailing towards the end and Delilah clearly knew his name and about him more than he knew of her. He didn’t want to bring his Whalers to chase Witches, and sounded reasonable to don’t bring Corvo either unless he truly could use the other’s presence and his sharp eyes. Nothing more, nothing less; And if he died at the woman’s hands, he would have Billie who was more than ready to carry on with the Whalers; and he would make sure that if he really was dead and gone, perhaps as a payment, enough coin to disappear would make sure Corvo didn’t regret his time, and rigging hound fights would be past.

                Perhaps, from the Void he would get to see the Whalers relying in a nearby coven, and the other way around. A new generation rising, from what the plague left behind and hearts that more than any other, were raised from the survivors that worshipped hope. He couldn’t come up with a second chapter of a better Dunwall, but the first had already played on his mind more than just a couple of times. That sounded likely, and lightened his heart enough to make him know he still was lucid enough to know it was better to favour his mind.

                But also, the bird on his glove that stood in silence as he approached Thalia, served as a reminder he was no less human with his cravings. And he would live logically, rationally; but also felt like nothing on the world would make him forget what it had been like to tangle up with a Witch in such a heated argument. Up to the end, it had been an argument. It had been nothing but an argument. One where they just hated and reacted too much to control themselves, even less try to harness one another.

                It wasn’t over, he knew. He wouldn’t give this as over. But alas, he was willing to go to his grave with the matter pending.

                “The Barrister’s enemies caught up to him. He’s in custody as a plague victim… Here’s the will, as agreed.” He said, walking down the docks as he handed the short noblewoman the paper, that undoubtedly reeked of Weeper as well but he guessed it was so valuable for her it didn’t quite matter. Thalia brought it to her hands and inspected it, as if to make sure if this was the one.

                Her smile indicated it was, and as she handed him a leather bag, which by the weight and sound, he could tell there was nothing there but bars of mint, more than four, six in fact upon looking inside. Original, massive, and sealed by the Lord Regent. Bars of solid gold were always wonderful currency and better than just counting coins. “That’ll do nicely. Perhaps better.”

                “But you were promised information. Well, my uncle came under Delilah’s spell. He was obsessed with her. Everyone knew she’d been a servant at the Tower before she studied under Sokolov. She was a painter, an artist. Beneath my family’s class, for certain. My uncle became infatuated. But he looked older, and made us keep candles lit all night. He was afraid of the dark.”

                It seemed to interest the Witch, so much that he looked at her and for the longest while he had ever seen the bird focus, he watched her talk and its tiny brain he was sure was racking through possibilities and oddities and whatever similarities he must have ever seen, heard or done himself. But for Daud, just consolidated what they thought about Delilah – she did possess Timsh, making him seem older and afraid of the dark, wrapped around her fingers for a long while. “Carry on.”

                “One night, we all went to Waverly – Boyle’s – for a séance. It was an amusement. We didn’t know what we were doing. I thought only the dead appeared at séances. But suddenly Delilah was in the room with us. My uncle nearly died of terror. She was there, but not there. We saw her as if she was very far away, standing in the old Brigmore Manor, painting at an easel, painting a name. It was your name, Daud.”

                His name. His name could mean so much, but alas, he wasn’t sure why it interested her before or later, but it seemed to make Corvo bristle up a little, feathers going up as he looked at her then at the Assassin – whatever connection this information brought, was a start. He couldn’t ask much more of the noblewoman, from here there would be no intricate details and rituals and awareness Corvo definitely must be after; but alas, it gave him a name to think of. _Brigmore Manor._

                “Thank you, Thalia.” He said with a small nod to the noblewoman; Young and petty and restless but also, she stayed true to her words and deal. She didn’t have much, but she hadn’t been the worse he ever dealt with. When she aged and would begin crafting enemies of her own, he would be there with his sword to see that agreement that suited them both well. Her coin and his blade. Or perhaps, her coin and whatever creative end he would have to learn to read without Corvo.

                Sounded so less interesting. But she gave him a short bow and warped her arms around herself. “It’s nothing, but it’s all I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

                He nodded, before making sure she would walk up to get under the sight of the Watch safely – she was a royal and would be escorted home, there was nothing to fear, from the Hatters or anything else. Daud could concern himself now only to make Corvo got home with the same ease, make sure he landed his wings without a dent to the Hound Pits, where if it wasn’t obvious enough, he would let the crow know that they sure had loose and _wandering hands_ , but that didn’t mean they should be feeding this habit often.

                Daud knew his place in the world, and nothing would work. There was better things to do than trying out. Safer routes and he knew better than start drinking when he had great things awaiting tomorrow.

                “Timsh is ruined. He’ll rot in Coldridge Prison if they don’t send him to the Flooded District. It’s… Poetic, I suppose. Maybe I was wrong about you, Daud.” Billie said, by the doors of the sewers and stealing his attention for a brief moment.

                He could sense something odd in her, in her voice and her stand. It was there, invisible and unknown and he could smell when things were wrong with the Whalers, even more those that were so long with him. But also, he was not good at mending them. He wasn’t sure if he made himself blind through the ages, or his eyes just closed whenever those problems and small signs so close of home showed up, as a consequence of willingly letting the world and the odds and the involved work and choose what would happen. Not him. Abstaining himself from the choices and action, and hoping that his lack of action wouldn’t count as an action itself.

                Daud had no idea of what to assume from it. He could see something and it spread on the air like smoke – somethings were better to deal at home. Not now, definitely not now. Order, and things in order, one after the other and just one at a time. “…You and Thomas, go ahead to Rudshore. I will find you two there.”

                A second longer than the usual seemed to take, before them both nodded and closed a fist before their chests, the signal for dismissing and with it, they left in a silent, colourless bundle of ashes that disappeared from around his fingers. With a small sigh, he looked at the crow and making sure the bag was firm as he put it under his arm, he transversed towards the rooftops, and once on the heights, he just walked… Walked towards the pub, crossing the city the slow way, but alas he didn’t have the Hound Pits Pub written on the back of his mind, otherwise he would transverse directly to there.

                It was better if he didn’t have the pub in his mind, the smallest details and edges written on the back of his mind, like the palm of his mind, highlighted all the strategic spots and also the most secret ones – it was better to don’t even try, it was better to don’t be familiar, to don’t have anything so close. Whatever he had in mind, it would be close, too close, and he already had enough of that.

                Also hunted his mind the Whalers, so odd and weird acting lately, but even more now it surfacing on Billie. It scared, it worried that it was something too big that he couldn’t close his eyes to it. He worried that it was something that with his silence, with him closing the doors to the Chamber of Commerce, that the world out there would wash all of his men from the outside of the ship, and without them – he was nothing, and he had nothing. He would rather die first, letting the ship sink before he saw it empty.

                He could bear it being empty, for as long as he knew they were somewhere safe. That the children he had raised from dust, ash and tears; hadn’t sired but had raised, gave them strength and example to be soldiers to hunt for themselves when the world wouldn’t provide – he wasn’t a good father. Children weren’t his things, but he doubted any of them had been children when he got them from the streets. Urchins, yes, but robbed of their childhood; they were unexperienced young adults, whom had seen the terrors of the world but knew not fully all that it had in stock for them.

                The Master Assassin could see the stretch of his legacy like this. Of all he learnt, from the world and its harshness – of the beauty of ruin; he taught them and they functioned alone, just like he expected them to do. It meant he had succeeded. He delivered the world perhaps for its best or its worse, people with all of him that he thought deserved being taught. But alas, when these sorts of issues that he couldn’t identify showed up, and he couldn’t see it having being born from him, he couldn’t manage it. He stepped back, and it remained a mystery for him.

                _“They are good children.”_ The crow said, as if seeming to detect what he had thought, and while it did make him cringe, he didn’t feel like breaking the bird’s neck just yet. He was never sure if Corvo was looking into his head, which was a scary thought, or he was just that sharp. Every day he grew to believe more on the later. He was a skilfully sharp bird; he wondered if he was born with eyes of the Void, born already with the talent of looking through the walls and into people’s hearts.

                And yes, they were good children, too good for this devastated world. They had his teaching and more, pieces of him attached to their own souls that were colours that escaped the dark maroon of aged blood, the orange of heresy, and the dull grey of his eyes. They were more, much more and they would refine what he was. Perhaps, some of them would even grow thankful for knowing the world through his tutelage – those who didn’t, perhaps they would find it on their hearts to forgive him.

                Forgive him for what he lacked; it was no excuse, but the days he was raised unto and they had been living in, those days were like this.

                When he got to the Hound Pits Pub, he couldn’t believe how the night was already stretching to steal away the sun. Time to go home, and have a warm meal, and perhaps hold a little tighter the mast and turn the radio a little louder; the reality of the streets he didn’t allow himself to forget, but the chaos at home he didn’t want to hear. Arriving at the pub, he carefully transversed to the walkway towards the ruined tower his Witch lived, and he carefully put his glove a little away from him, so Corvo had the room to fly off, which he did.

                To land before him, still changing perhaps – smoke and feathers and blueness, serene and knowing, to look into his eyes as his being still revolved, blue and black and green for a moment, before settling on the Witch he knew; whom looked no less intensely at him as the Master Assassin sighed. “Safe and sound.”

                “By most part, indeed.” The Witch said, the corner of his lips quirking but thankfully, saying no more. Corvo seemed to know it all, and while it didn’t shake his world in any negative way, he wore something on his features, akin to sadness, almost. Peaceful resignation. Understanding, but also, almost pity.

                Nothing too close, nothing too despaired. As Daud was a very old story, that he already knew well and now, he could only recall vaguely what would happen – and when it did, he had a shadow of that original sentiment the tale might have elicited. Now, there was just a distant smile, almost ethereal like the Outsider. Daud resigned to the fact that he would never understand, and in that distance, he couldn’t help but to have that serene expression, as still as a water mirror, make him forlorn as well.

                “When this is over; make yourself a favour. Open a coven, or a pub of your own, whatever. Pay rent if you may. But servant work doesn’t suit you.” The Master Assassin said, as he took a deep breath and handed the bag under his arm to the Witch; who like the Leviathan of the Void, seemed to be caught off guard by the small things as well, Daud still managed to surprise, even as an old dog. His hands carefully held it, such a heavy bag of heavy gold, not enough for him to buy a pub but enough for him to get started. For him to pay rent for a year, and stop focusing on something so menial.

                Corvo had the good ideas that could change Dunwall to the best. He was worth seeing unfold and grow into the grey city. He would weave bigger changes, and for the better. Not Daud. He would make sure that the Witch had enough to the end to do something with his life more than hound fights. His eyes watched the bag for a moment, before sighing; there was nothing wrong with payment, and he seemed tired of arguing. In a way, Daud also had no mind for it either.

                It had been good to be distracted, however, for this day that had lasted not long enough. “There is pride in whatever job if it is well done.”

                “Not questioning that. But wasted talent is a pity.” He said, and those lips moved into a brighter smile. Was it so hard to hear good things? Daud knew so, he couldn’t remember the last time he heard it. _He couldn’t remember saying it either._

                There was so many things that he couldn’t remember himself doing from how long it had been. He had taught the Whalers to rock and change their surface when the world changed, but don’t be changed inside due to the world. Change only for the better, the most intelligent. Not the easiest or what seemed right just because it seemed so.

                For a moment, he could hear it on the other’s lips, something to be handed back to the Assassin. And for a moment, he could see himself forgetting how everything was reason to step away, and he only knew that he wanted to silence the Witch from elaborating further. It remained there, on the colour of his lips, framed by the orange light cast over his tower; painting his Witch the most alluring colours to put warmth at the blueish feathered man. The warm feelings like his body felt; feverish, with cold hands that always shook when he ached to do something.

                He should vanish. He had what mattered. He shouldn’t ever come back here, and that was the decision he made. To leave the Witch with that; a kiss, a good wish, not less money than his help was worth, but also not nearly as much. Daud wouldn’t come back, and it sounded perfect and forlorn and Corvo looked like he knew it already, maybe he did and that was why he had seemed so resigned but also, distant. Or it was just Daud hoping he did.

                But he never got to kiss that smile like the only indulgence he would allow himself. His mark tingled, with the awareness someone of his Whalers arrived, and turning around he saw a sleek mask, and the dark clothes signalled it was naught but a novice – Dimitri, his mind would supply, restless and a bit naïve but very loyal. And he sounded like he ran all the way from Rudshore to here, and he knew something was wrong.

                He always knew something was wrong. He just choose to close his eyes to it. “Sir, Rudshore has been overrun by Overseers. Some of us were captured – we need you back.”

                Daud never got to tell his Witch goodbye.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If by now I don't get you to comment and share with me your loathing sentiments and swear words, I understand it, you don't have a heart.
> 
> Tell me how I can improve.  
> Tell me what you like.  
> Tell what hurts.  
> Tell what you need to understand.  
> Tell me of grammar mistakes.  
> Tell me your favourite song.  
> Tell me.


	9. Fire Study.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corvo arrives at Rudshore during the Overseer Surge. He discreetly helps, as Daud pick up the sword again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to thank you once more for getting so far, you reading so avidly and this having such a quickly feedback feeds my soul. Its truly something else, and sure it might seem small – “I’m just one more reading”- it truly isn’t as insignificant as it seems.
> 
> I’d like to thank every one of you, personally, no matter where in the world you are. This work means a lot for me and to see people so avid on seeing it unfold is absolutely wondrous.
> 
> Thank you. Have another chapter, developed through Corvo’s eyes. May this entertain you quite.

****

**_“Fire Study.”_ **

_“There's always another storm. It's the way the world works. Snowstorms, rainstorms, windstorms, sandstorms, and firestorms. Some are fierce and others are small. You have to deal with each one separately, but you need to keep an eye on what’s brewing for tomorrow.”_

**_― Maria V. Snyder, Fire Study_ **

****

****

                He had never seen a whole district burn.

                It swallowed everything that the water hadn’t taken, and even that, he had his doubts. There was war at every corner, and alas, the crow relished and mourned. The thrill on his heart, the desire to loom and caw and watch, as wolves and men sorted what ends would come of their lives and swords, it seemed appealing to a part of him. Just like the black bird was painted to mourn, he turned into a widower of every lost soul in battle.

                Sure it was ugly to see. His wings could only evade so much smoke, and the progressing night hadn’t ever had a dawn so red; red painted the buildings, in slithering flames that reached for the skies, escaping that chaos where it seemed to be trapped and like anyone there, wanted to escape it.

                The light reflected on their masks, be it whaling masks or a seer’s, it was red. The walls, before they were swallowed by red flames, red carpet shone for a moment and darkened, doused with blood. So much fire, so much hot air his wings were taken from its pace more often than not. And he listened.

                Hounds howled, and he wanted to join them. The rats fled, but didn’t go far; they wouldn’t miss the feast if they could help it. The bugs fled, and the smoke stung harder.

                No fire was consuming more than the ones he could hear at their hearts; seer or whaler, they burned with loyal zeal and it clouded minds. The crow like never before, wished he could cover his ears from the Empress’ voice, whom passed from exasperated litany and prayer to the begs of nothing more than children armed with swords, and the ferocity of hounds; the world bred them out of their fear, but instilled into them loyalty. They would mourn first with the swords, then with tears.

                From above and the clouds of smoke, it was hard to breathe, so he evaded the pits of fire by flying low. Every soul had a cry, and a voice, and none was who he was looking for. In a concert of swords, Corvo had no place in it but by no means could he bring himself to stay idle.

                If it hit the Whalers, then he feared it would hit him next. He hid the gold he had been gifted, and what was of most importance before taking on wings to find Rudshore – a place he actually had been to once, before the floods, when it trimmed with life, energy, gold, red velvets, luxurious and hopeful but cynical people, and at times, the smile of people who won millions at cards; Corvo wasn’t spared a coin, but the joy was contagious.

                Where was that joy now? He saw none; he could hear laughter but it was from the seers and even that was false. Their laugh was maniacal and he could see the dark corner in their minds that showed they knew it very well; there was no regret on their eyes under those masks, but perhaps their thoughts wandered to when life hadn’t been so shallow – back at a time where they thought and they would be disgusted by what they have become. It was a faraway thought, that their scriptures helped to avoid and yet, it seemed to caw at a distance, like a child before being taken from their mother’s arms.

                It stilled no pity but mourning instead. The district was dark, white stone turned black with the emptiness of these streets until now and the mould seemed to be overgrown; so deep in colour, it painted the district in black, being swallowed by the Void and forgotten from people’s minds, no longer a shocking fact for those that didn’t have to come across such a sight. Such was the seers’ hearts and the Whalers’ as well, at least to his own sight.

                At the Assassins’ minds he could see so little, just what his own mind, experienced at such things, could tell. A veil, as dark as the blackened mould that surrounded the district, surrounded their minds and hearts. It was a mist, a cloud of smoke that spread over the humid streets and surprised him not that the found their kingdom within such a terrain. Inaccessible without their abilities, too dangerous for frequent patrols from anyone – it hadn’t protected them now, however.

                He still wished he could understand; that he could _see._ See where this magical utopia had failed.; Daud and the Whalers, a man that harnessed power into the most practical way he could and changed the world with might; for better or for worse, the pillars of the world fell and from Her death brought forth the prophecies unfurled by the Oracles. Daud certainly would shed away that piece of mind, but he was there, at the heart of it, alive but unmentioned; his face the menace and he had delivered his part of the story.

                This was never there, however. This he hadn’t managed to find anywhere on the tapestry of prophecies. This was merely the sum of chaos, small things, not the great acts, but the small things left undone or done wrongly. This place was secret, hidden, and it lingered on the air, as intoxicating as the black smoke that cascaded towards the sky. _Someone talked._ And if this didn’t sound mythical in itself, he didn’t know what did.

                To think, when he saw Daud turning his back to wrong things amongst his own men, clearly thinking he didn’t have the tenderness to handle, Corvo thought it wasn’t something reoccurring. Now, the Witch feared to be wrong.

                And he searched, with black wings and sharp eyes that could see much but also, so little in this world of ruins, he sought for the one that wore red – and what a glimpse of war he was. He was harbinger of chaos, either subtle with clean hands or intensely reaping through the doorway of his own house; A king merciful at war, but merciless at the doorstep of his throne.

                But when that war was taken to his palace, he put to show all that made the underworld revere him. He weaved a dance of swords, massive strikes like a wolf, no less graceful and certain on his step. And the world burnt and trembled, silver, crimson and black.

                It was enthralling to watch, the way his sword danced – bright under the moonlight that barely peeked from over the clouds and smoke, the steel seemed to steal for itself its light, and with it, respect. The glimpse of silver and people suddenly knew the meaning of respect; worthy and unworthy cowered, bent sideways in hopes to avoid silver eyes. Wherever those eyes lay, another perished, darkened soul found its end; thrown aside wherever it fell, adorned with silver bullet holes. Silver was the sight of conquest, unrestrained and tearing at restraints – and more than anyone else, those silver eyes seemed to know all secrets but no difference between the flesh of the humble and the greatest of the great.

                And in crimson, he spread in fury like flames fanned – gave no room to run, no room to hide, away from his reach the heat still burned and a second more or less was what it took for the fire to take what was due to it. Fire had gone from coating his blade, to coating his hands, his coat and his face. It painted and left nothing behind but the eye of the beast unleashed, glistening in the dark as the wolf prowled. More than the burning sight instilled into him hate; it gave to him all the means to give the same. It infected him until all he saw was red.

                Blackness, in its discretion, closed the scenery solidly. Black like dropped swords, swallowed by fire and smoke until they were but a forgotten object, unable to be recovered. Black ashes and dust raised to the air, like black petals left at the graveyard men willingly walked into. It was black smoke, that covered the horizon afar but not too far, seemingly as if every corner was the last frontier. The black corners where laid the forgotten, pilled mangled bodies that broke even the most austere. On the red holes that bled no more, silver bullets disappeared; only colourless death remained. The smoke against the floors revolved, like black swarms eating the corpses of the fallen and painting robes black once more; black clouds loomed, black storms thundered, black eyes turned to the battlefield, and the Leviathan was watching.

                And it was on that darkness where secrets were concealed, and remained omnipresent to watch the man weave war over it, wearing it, bracing it and unafraid. A fierce heart that picked one by one, and put men in the open graveyard of his throne room. Silver shined as every second, he stood a step closer to victory, and enjoyed his way there; the crimson of blood and fire washed the floor, washed the surfaces, and would wash the story. Red and silver that adorned the blackness’ mystery, all the while it aligned both beauty and misery.

                He could watch forever, by the corner of his eyes watch the fires that opened terrain but he wasn’t one to get so near. The fire that seemed to caress the Assassin, just from getting too close would burn out his feathers; distance served him best, and gave him the view he would roll and store tightly into his mind and heart. The air was toxic, but wonderful to feel filling his wings as he manoeuvred on the clouds of smoke and watched, from the distance that allowed him to gaze into the scenery. The distance that allowed him to see more than the moment, allowed him to see more than his anger, and his bloodstained cheeks and silver gaze; Corvo saw beyond.

                The black bird came to land by a broken windowsill, tilting his head to listen, then to see. While Daud weaved war at the main floors, out in the open; within the buildings Overseers cornered and hid, watching the man bred by flame tear the district to cleanse wherever his eyes could see golden masks. Their hearts were conflicted, between choosing instinct and doctrine, between running away and baring their teeth on a last attempt to stand. They were not brave enough for the later, to leave the comfort of being unseen took too much from the hearts of mere men, and some of them waited where they stood. For the crow, it mattered little the stories they would raise from this, he had his own.

                But the blackened figure tied by their feet lured him to approach, gliding indoors, through a maze of corridors and walls and panels to the lower floor, where he watched closely the figure kneeled, surrounded by Overseers sporting their music boxes, which Corvo hated to a passion if he were to be personal about the subject.

                Seemed to be something that he shared with the man tied down. It wasn’t only the Witch that would cower at its sound, lose his balance and synchrony from the Void and as a whole, the world seemed unbalanced; parts of him were stolen, and with it the world would move under his feet and his skull crumble from the inside; The sound would deafen enough to make his ears bleed, and the melody would reap from him something beyond what he could live without. He had traded too much with the Void right now, too much of his had been given, and parting from that synchrony could be lethal.

                He had all reason to eye the box suspiciously as he stood on his feet instead of talons, and time held itself for a brief moment as he picked his crossbow and spun the self-reloading mechanism to fire just enough darts it took, as he let himself jump down from the bookshelf he was perched at, walking as time came back and he made sure that every Overseer fell accordingly with what he expected of them. Piero’s craft however, had never failed him, and he lowered himself a little to look at the Whaler that looked up quickly.

                He didn’t need to hear from the Whaler’s heart, neither he needed to touch his unreachable, misty mind, nor his covered features would tell through his mask. It was written on his body, on the eagerness and trust in which the youth - a young man, much younger than Corvo would like to believe - seemed to put on the approaching figure, before stealing it back to the confines of his unreachable soul once it was not Daud he was seeing, but something new. A light footed Serkonan, with eyes that glowed black like the black magic they weaved, it was not a sweet presence.

                But alas, the crow could smell Daud on him; the same flavours he weaved, the conflagration that the Master Assassin was for everything, they were the embers and ash; part of the same pack, wild wolves with their own code, their own wit, their own language, that for the world outside, Witches or anyone, seemed like an utopia to follow, mysterious and efficient. Any creature with fangs wanted to have that unshakeable unity they had. What had even happened here, to ruin such perfection?

                The Witch carefully tilted his head, eyeing the red spots on his attire. His, clearly so by the way the stains surrounded cut fabric. He didn’t like the way Overseers sounded, almost proud of pinning down the wolf as if it was to blame for not lasting too long in war. He was alone, and was but a hound pup before the real wolves; he would grow into those paws. Corvo picked the sabre of one of the Overseers, and bend down to untie his restraints, one loop at a time. He had winced when the Witch approached, but seemed to stop moving as a whole as he noticed that the sabre was going for his wrists, not his neck.

                “Can you fight, Whaler? Or do you need help to get to safety?” He murmured, undoing the first knots before stepping back and offering his hand to the young man, not at all taller than the Witch. He watched as he carefully took it, warily even, but clasped it firmly to stand. His eyes watched his wounded skin, but it seemed to have not dug too deeply. Wolves and their thick hides, the wolfling was no different and he caught his breath and once on his feet, he rolled his shoulders a little, stiff from being tied.

                Through the glass circles of his mask, Corvo could see but the shadow of eyes and for a moment, they looked down even though his head didn’t move. Perhaps he couldn’t fight; perhaps he had seen too much loss that he had no desire to fight anymore. But even if he had no limbs left, and even if he couldn’t hold a sword or stand, that he stood firm and ready spoke volumes on its own. Corvo didn’t need magic to see somethings, not on them at least, not when they weren’t different from the man that taught them all that they knew.

                To take from him the right of die fighting was a fate worse than dying. A pup, but nonetheless, a wolf. “I will fight, _sir._ ”

                The Witch nodded as he looked around for his sword, so different in both hue and shape from an Overseer’s sabre, he took it from the floor and looked at it carefully looked for any dents; it was durable enough to be in one piece still, and he handed it to the Whaler. “Daud could use an extra sword. Keep your eyes sharp.”

                He nodded, before swinging his sword a little and closing his left fist over his heart, one of many gestures he had seen them throwing one another and this one he had seen before. _Dismissal._ Corvo nodded in return, and with his dismissal conceded, the young man was off in their odd, colourless kind of _blink_ , that worked through ash and long distances and soundlessness, that now had a familiar sound to his ears, as every time his own nature sang back to it and his tattoos shone, along his eyes.

                Taking on wings, he quickly sought for more. This was definitely not the only Whaler caught, part of him told along the Overseers as he flew by. At least four more were bound somewhere, waiting to either recover in some safe corner, or join Daud on his conflagration, every moment stronger, burning brighter. But also, he kept his senses clear as he flew with haste.

                There was a head behind this, that much was clear. Not one, but at least two. Not only there was an Overseer at the heart of everything, which was the direction he was sure Daud was heading to, climbing up the corpses one by one; but there was more. Someone that talked, someone that explained the destroyed, desolated district that he flew through, and how it could be invaded. Access seemed impossible if not through the broken sea wall or the skies, he couldn’t think of any other way where the Overseers would have known how to get to Rudshore if not through someone from inside.

                The Witch wouldn’t take guesses. Instead he made himself work even faster, wings quicker and eyes sharp, but also silent in comparison to the chaos spreading. There were other Whalers to find, and hounds to have in mind; they stood too close of the young Assassin’s neck, and would definitely put the blame of its handler’s unconsciousness on the man it was told to watch. But it was not a problem, just much more complex to neutralise. He passed through the creature’s mind like a spirit, uncovering the edges and quirks of its personality before he brought himself to step out, bending time to surrender the Overseers unconscious before they noticed him.

                The sleeping hound joined its owners, and another sword full of fiery might asked for dismissal before leaving. By the third Whaler he found, he began returning the gesture without noticing. Slowly however, the speed of his work was making his head dizzy; he couldn’t tell anymore if when he threw himself off the window, it was wings he was spreading or his own fingers. To walk, he didn’t feel the difference of balance anymore between a train and the lack of it. There wasn’t enough time between changes for him to adapt, his heart never slowed down his quick beating, and he never caught his breath that he lost a little more at each change.

                By the last Whaler, his nails were long and sharp enough he could tear at the restrains of the last with only them. By then, he had already heard enough of Leonard Hume and he could see through windows, through the calls for support and war, that sometime soon Daud and his men would make it there, and there wouldn’t be any more bloodshed besides of those responsible over this. He had heard of everything, of restless planning but the existence of plans none the last, and it was the next place he went.

                Sure Daud was making enough of a scene, calling enough attention and supplies that the plans were left mostly unguarded, only a single Overseer stood watchful over them, and for the Witch was more than pleasing to go through it. To see his black nails trace the drawings that after turning them left and right, made some sense. There were so many crumbled ruins, buildings that he could use for orientation, now turned to vessels of thin walls that were slowly sinking into the wet district.

                But through them, he couldn’t see enough information to find more about the minds behind, such a movement. There was a clear sweep through the District planned, something that he should have heard of much earlier, but they changed plans and quickly rushed towards Rudshore. Corvo didn’t exactly understand, the Whalers wouldn’t know and neither would the simple Overseers. Hume, perhaps, would, if Daud could spare him the sword. If not, Corvo would do some digging of his own, and he would sort it out even if he would have to possess the dead to hear of it.

He rolled up the map and carefully folded it; he would have to put it close to himself in order to avoid losing it when changing to take into the air. But his coat was all wrong, he couldn’t find his pockets and neither could he find the crevices of his belt. He walked to the window so he could see in the mirror what nuisance was haunting him now, and the reflexion, even if blurry and undefined, were enough to make him stop and only listen to his heart beating against his hurting head, parted lips panting as he watched.

                Nails carefully reaching for what could have been dark blue sleeves, but now was of feathers as well. Like the cloak, that had never been too long to reach the middle of his back, it seemed to have heated up enough to melt – melt through his coat and breeches, and stick to his skin and the flapped ends of his coat, now were fanned behind his thighs. Through the feathered sleeve on his arms, he could run his nails between them and feel his skin. As if there were two, now glued directly against one the other and sharing the same nerve endings. The one of above, however, was stiff and harboured feathers; smooth, black and soft to the touch, but also, awful news.

                A lesson to teach him about his abuse, it sounded. He knew he overdid it, but he had never expected the abuse of his abilities to come back at him so quickly. The reflex on the window had dark eyes, that he couldn’t see white or irises or pupils, the glass allowed him no such privilege, only the awareness that he overdid it and the ease of change came with prices.

                No matter how much he panted, his breath didn’t ever get to how he wanted it. No matter how much his arms felt light, they ached from so much curves and manoeuvring on the air, and yet shook, expecting more to come now that changing back and  fro asked for no more effort. His eyes felt like they had never changed back; they still saw forward in great distances, and to the sides, and with great detail even on the corner of his eyes – all at once, no darkening of the edges, no blurring; his skull hurt from trying to focus in just one spot but not obtaining results.

                Closing them, however, was something he couldn’t afford. He opened the window carefully before putting his foot on the windowsill and jumping out; the change had never been so smooth, to stretch a little more and he was already taking into the air, inhaling of the torrent of cleaner air that the river brought – it was humid, and it seemed to pressure him more, push him to the floor along the smoke; the skies were pushing back on the world and he could feel it, as well the scent of wet stone that was being brought from the horizon.

                He cawed, and the skies thundered in return. If the storm could wait a little, he would be thankful.

                Finding the Chamber of Commerce was no issue, there was staircases made of bodies, and carpets were painted anew. There were Assassins, standing tall on the windows and ledges, and guarding the outside that stood like a yard over a ruined building, just outside the Chamber itself; Outside, reigned absolute the red king; bathed in red, tainted by it, stepping over it as they assembled;

                One by one, they took form and came from the crevices from which they stood and watched. The Assassins, one by one, bloodbathed by their own blood or others, limping or not, they stood and raised their swords, in a synchrony that lured to watch; some had their steel dirtied, a couple didn’t, and all the light of the night, all the light of the fires seemed to gather within those blades as they were sheathed all together. For the first time on the night, they left their owners’ hands. Crooked fingers or altogether missing ones shook, shivered; but like Corvo, they would rather overdo it instead of standing idle. The wolves would rather see their ends come at war, instead of staying idle to survive another day.

                There was no other day they wanted to die so much as this one. Tonight, they craved it, Corvo knew. And in a way, so seemed Daud. His eyes looked distant, and so vivid and with so much light. There was no rest on his soul, whom screamed behind those eyes, and asked for nothing less than that the sacrifice of many would at least bring one pup back to his arms. It seemed so terrifying, to see years of care, years of understanding and learning - just as much as he must have taught - to perish like this, in a brief moment where things slipped from their control.

                What a ravenous world, that swallowed in its hunger and knew no boundaries. Nothing was sacred over it, or underneath at the Void; everything was up for being reaped. But still, they found strength on their feet to stand still, and gather outside of the Chamber of Commerce to regroup to their master. There weren’t many Assassins, but their hearts stood strong – there was enough order and a halt to this chaos, that he could see the need of new orders; to drive the intruders back further, and put an end to this, or perhaps return to within the gates and risk another wave of seers.

                He dared to say he knew Daud enough to know he wouldn’t come indoors just yet. The bodies would wait while they could, and he would follow the men to end the rest of the Overseers; still bodies awaited and so did the rats. Corvo wasn’t one to weave war with the sword, but scavenging was something he was quite proficient at.

                “Give the word, sir. What is our next move?” The red clad assassin asked, Billie the crow could easily recognise from the muffled voice. His ears were sharp enough to hear more; hear her sadness, her mourning, her regret, perhaps for not being here any faster, for not saying goodbyes before the fallen arrived to their due date.

                Here however, there was nothing due. There was no passage on the thread of story about the Whalers being hit like they had. There was nothing but sadness, grief, anger and revenge. There was nothing but a man that had been a step closer to see things brighter, but found all the reasons he needed to empower his demons. They were naught but himself, a walking catalyst that spit out what he swallowed, he burned brighter only when fed smoke and fire. There was no use to it but to make his hands more eager, his eyes colder, and the light a little further to reach.

                Again, crows seemed born in black for wherever they flew to, they only saw ruin. Those they enjoyed to follow and watch always had something eaten up by the world. They had been born to mourn; bred already a widower to seeing an Empire descend and their saviours lose faith, light and purity. If only they would stick with a behaviour despite going rotten by this world.

                Black wings unfurled, and he carefully landed on his feet close by but not too close. All the silver light of the world had been stolen and doused in mercury; it revolved liquid and poisonous on those eyes, and like a mirror they were painted the colour of his surroundings; tonight, they were red. Corvo knew better than walking too close, but still he reached for his pouch and slowly spread out the map for him to see, without parting his eyes from the Knife of Dunwall, who looked at him with unreadable eyes.

                There was recognition, but the Witch couldn’t tell which sort – good or bad, thankful or angered. He just could tell those eyes recognised and yet seemed to question him here. If it was truly him; a sight of good wishes or doom. Every corner had black hands, reaching out to hurt, to scratch and do harm, Daud seemed to look like he saw just another hound, that wore familiar features, but seated within a whole other entity. Corvo couldn’t avoid his gaze, couldn’t avoid holding it as the Master Assassin’s mark knowingly lit up under the glove, and so did the Witch’s eyes.

                He couldn’t open up the map any faster. “…I found this. Their plans are ruined.”

                The Assassin stepped closer, and the Witch couldn’t help the way his blood grew gelid at the sight of a bloodstained sword. He wasn’t weak for such things, but certainly was for the man that could make it such a weapon of war. And if his presence didn’t please, Corvo might as well join the piles of corpses, and when Daud stepped forward, the Witch stepped back on the same pace. It made the Master Assassin stop, unreadable.

                But alas, there was more bird than man roaming on his heart, and sometimes he just wished to take flight. Not out of fear, but this was a clash he was not willing to do. He wouldn’t put himself on the sword for the simple reason of existing. No, if Daud wanted to fight, if he woke up someday thinking the Witch was better dead, Corvo wanted to prepare his worse, he wanted to give into everything he had piled, one last time. Not too different from the pups, he could see the value if he ever got into a fight, he wanted to see it develop with all he had in mind. Let the question be answered; who had more power, Witches or Assassins.

                But not now. Not right now, not like this when Daud couldn’t see a palm before his silver eyes and Corvo might be just another head he wanted to see roll for the sake of bloodlust. This was not a fight he wanted to die at; he wouldn’t fight the blind man, not tonight. Eventually those eyes went down to the map and plans, from the Greaves Oil Refinery down a bee way towards Rudshore. Nowhere else, they had no control over the other buildings and it would mean that after these men were killed, there would be no more so soon. No one would come searching, and even if they did, they would hardly try anything or find anything.

                Killing all of them wasn’t the only option, he wanted to say. There would be more information from them and even more from their leader, but he had a feeling Leonard Hume was no more. He wanted to remind Daud of this option, knowing so easily he was trying to keep his hands clean, with a small bout of awareness of the chaos he raised through his life now coming to bite; the man was trying to tie one rattling end and perhaps it would be the one that held everything together. It would be the stone base that the world would balance itself.

                He didn’t dare saying it though. In fact, Corvo felt like it was better to don’t say anything. But the Assassin did have a look at the plans, and his eyes narrowed with tension – inside his mind, the engines spun and showed that he was thinking; that he could see a little more than a piece of paper, was good enough for the Witch. When he reached for it, it was enough for the Witch to hand it to him quickly and take another step away, something Daud looked at intensely before folding the paper with his bloodstained hands.

                “Capture as many as you can. They aren’t going anywhere.” He said, and Billie took a moment before nodding and vanishing in thin air, in ashes and dust that not only where all that was left of her. That same ash began sticking to Daud’s features, Corvo’s as well, and the humid air was calling out the people indoors; it would storm soon, and perhaps it would freeze the bodies out there enough that they couldn’t be raised from the floor until they melted in a month or more.

                A crow’s function was to get rid of corpses; he would make sure those children were put to rest and to be recognised and counted. The hurt needed to be fixed, and those stained from blood of enemies and loved ones would require baths to have their wounds addressed. The thunders seemed to rumble just hurry them up; get them up and working so they could come inside before the rain fell. Corvo wanted to comply, but no more than he wanted to avoid the flames and burning gaze that still looked at him, holding  on that uncomfortable moment where he noticed his eyes were in no one else but _him;_ the Witch turned to the edge of the building but never turned his eyes away from Daud.

                The Master Assassin was a man of many thoughts, but little words. In a way, so was Corvo, but the Witch took it as a profession to _hear,_ however Daud was the only creature that he couldn’t read much if he didn’t openly speak. There were no lines on him between hate, sadness, grief, regret and mournful relief. He couldn’t read his eyes fully, and he didn’t want to find out what he was thinking right now. To whatever was in his eyes, he would have to find out someday soon. Not now however; as he took unto the air.

                There were children to find and hide from the storm, pyres to build and names to give to resting faces, that finally slept after so much suffering. The world would hurt them no more, and they left this world due to the cowardice of other men, and the thorough bravery these young children possessed. He could taste the mourning on the air, and it wasn’t just his. He was not the only widower of the night; behind masks, Whalers and Overseers had tears under the gelid but burning night.

                So much to do, and so little time for mourning. He did get to see the Whalers passing through the main streets to follow the Overseers to wherever they hid. Their witch hunt was turned inside out, and the witch hunters were having a taste of what they did. They shook, terrified behind the doors, praying they wouldn’t be found but doors were put down, and they were dragged out to be put in cages; they hid under the bodies of their friends and acquaintances so to not be caught. But they always were; their sobs could be easily heard no matter how they thought they were crying silently.

                Corvo found the children where they laid. A couple breathed still, and he carried them inside. There were floors and wings of the Building of Commerce that had been changed fully; from training rooms to dorms, bathrooms and other parts. A large meeting room, turned infirmary, was where most Whalers that had no chance of fighting remained. It was a room that seemed to have always been ready for such numbers, cots and beds and items always ready for great numbers, and while it was considerably warmer than the rest of the building, it was no less mournful to be at.

                It wasn’t saline water on the air, but tears that made it taste like iron and salt, somethings sterile and disheartening. An older man in uniform stood alone to sew and silence children weeping in pain; while the room seemed ready to harbour so many wounded, the man wasn’t. Perhaps not even in his worst nightmare he had thought he would see so many of his fellow men hurt, neither he had thought he would be alive to see such events unfold.

                His presence raised heads and a silent uproar. A small army of fireflies, it felt like. All of them, conscious or not, emitted their faint fire lights behind the veil of smoke that wrapped their hearts and minds; still, those little flames burned the same colour and rhythm as Daud - some in more synchrony then others, some brighter than others but this was no sign of the value of their souls and might; only of how much black magic their hearts harnessed for themselves.

                That, he thought, must be the same link that Delilah had with her Witches. It was almost the same bond Daud shared with his followers and linked one another like the loops of a chain, borrowing power and strength from the Master Assassin. It was just another mystery for the Witch, that he assumed and inspected but truly didn’t understand. Just like their eyes, mistrusting and afraid and willing to stand up and take to arms to face the Witch – but no one stood, it was just a flame there on their eyes, as he carried a light body inside; a lithe young woman, that bled almost so much that he hadn’t heart her heart beating at first but removing the mask, there was a breathing there, quiet and weak.

                His heeled boots took the woman to one of the covered cots, where Whalers from similar states to better situations were housed. He gently laid her there, making sure her arms were by her sides before he raised his head to the young man on the nearby cot, with his legs mangled almost beyond mending, as he watched Corvo intensely for a moment.

                It was impossible to look into his heart and mind, it was impossible to see his past and his future. But the tired blonde seemed to hurt beyond measure, and still took it unto himself to record Corvo in his memory. In terror, or perhaps wonder; the wolf watched everything new with wariness, but before anything, he evaluated actions before suspicion. And he seemed to deserve his recognition, through his clear blue eyes that perhaps would never walk again. Corvo received enough recognition of worth that the young wolf carefully laid down again, and covered his eyes with his wrist.

                Corvo took just another Assassin still alive to the room, before he only found corpses.

                Lining crates and tearing some apart, he found a room and made a stand to avoid the cold floor and hide them from the approaching storm – the whale oil lamps made them company, as he laid down the pups he found, one by one with their masks resting over their chests. He was beyond disheartened to count the numbers. Twelve dead, and with so many wounded that he hadn’t counted, he could tell that this was a hit on the numbers and spirits that would rot them from the inside.

                He filled bags with the Overseer’s belongings, notes, orders, bullets, grenades, coins and what more, before the corpses disappeared under the swarms. There was too much to clear with only rats, but whenever he could gather the attention of a nearby swarm he made sure to send it to feast on the bodies that should vanish before they rotted.

                At the end, he made it through the rain to lend his hands to the wounded. His feathers were damp and it was cold, very cold to hug the humid air with his feathers. He had silently made himself useful, taking to whatever the physician had left behind. His fingers had been skilled with needle and thread, and he had grafted skin before, but only small patches; it was both amazing as it was frightening to see limbs being bare of skin to be transplanted at another part of one’s body.

                Butchery and medicine, at times, seemed to mix up almost perfectly and he wasn’t pleased by either, but if it would help, then he did what he could. The sedatives were almost inefficient, but a few mixtures were known to work on them; Corvo knew his way then, it was one skill of his, perhaps the most overlooked but that showed its value now. He changed and powered them up a notch, and addressed wounds with new salves, the physician didn’t seem to mind if he did notice they were a little bit different.

                A bit of blood and tears of the Witch couldn’t weave miracles on their own; a lullaby sang itself between his lips but it wasn’t the key of it either. It was on his hands, it was only the fact it was him weaving, and no one else. And his eyes didn’t glow to weave his magic; neither did his skin lit up from the inside, but his tired hands and mind were enough to make what he touched apart from what he didn’t.

                But he felt the arrival before any other confirmation. Something new, odd and absolutely devastating, that tasted of poison, green thorns and roses. It was enough for him to let go of everything he had been doing to march outside.

                He had never seen or even been on the same district as Delilah. But if he was sensing such a menace, he was sure that she could find him with just as much ease.

                Her arrival here was like a vulture looming to pierce from whatever was left. To land a hit when the Whalers weren’t prepared for it, neither could see her arrival; when sides and vulnerable spots were all vulnerable and Corvo had never thought himself he would get to see her in person in this manner. She wouldn’t come from whatever crevice she hid if it was not to take something for her advantage.

                The hailstorm howled, and he cawed with the lightning and thunder. Delilah, wherever she was, would hear it on the howling wind. She should know better than just allowing herself in another’s coven.

                As a Witch, he was hardly paired up in the same level as Delilah; But also, was worth trying to hold the pieces together and gain some time. It was his chance to learn a little more of her, her talents, which sounded like a mystery but also, seemed so much like his. He had so much to learn, but he made his choice on which side to stand by. He either would learn on his own or behind Daud’s sword as he watched her die.

                The only risk of that choice was that she could come and catch him directly, which seemed unlikely until now. But it didn’t change the fact he was willing to see it unfold, almost too eagerly.

                Defeating Overseers and avenging Whalers didn’t have the same flavour for him that there was for them. To die, however, clashing talents and tricks with Delilah, was something he was more than willing to do. He was eager, almost.

                Little mattered what were Delilah’s intentions and her plans. Little mattered the lives she wanted to ruin, they were only but a bonus to stop her. Corvo didn’t want her coven; he didn’t want to be the solo Witch of Dunwall.

                But she stood a menace that loomed over the horizon and few could see. Overpowered, she would put the hunt first at them; as if plagues had sentience, whatever she was doing, when she succeeded, first she would put an end on everyone else that was touched or marked by the Leviathan, for they were the only that might have the capacity to stand up to her. She was a rat and Weeper, putting holes in a still of elixir. She might do nothing now, but she would if she could.

                 It was for the sake of survival and her silence proved it; like Corvo, she didn’t want to be found up to now. Delilah was hitting the Whalers for Daud was getting too close. Anyone would have done the same. The Witch was reaching out to hit the hideout in a moment of weakness.

                However, she wouldn’t find it unguarded. If not par with Delilah, he ought to find out how far behind he was, and perhaps learn a thing or two from the Witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, delivered. Phew, I wish I could write shorter stuff, or that I would start writing them earlier on the day.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you have enjoyed this chapter! Please stay tuned for more – more fighting, more magic, more tears, more hate, and who knows, more chemistry. 
> 
> See you around! Type a sweet hello for me on the comments!


	10. Rain Is The Perfect Protector From The Rain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corvo's Pov, introducing his fight with Delilah.  
> Daud's Pov, his breaking point; Billie's betrayal takes its tool.  
> The end of the mission 'The Surge'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE TO BE HONEST WITH YOU, THIS HAS BEEN GREAT.
> 
> I mean, I don’t know how you will feel about it, but goodness I loved to write this. I am loving to write this fanfiction with a burning passion. I love every second of my coffee-induce tachycardia and Witches and everything. Ten is a holy number, it inspires perfectness and balance.
> 
> I hope this chapter 10 gives you this same sensation. More notes at the end where I will explain somethings. For now, get your favourite power metal album playing and let’s ride to Valhalla, shall we? Rollercoaster ahead, dudes and dudettes. All fighting scenes has been directed by Michael Bay.
> 
> I am not to be held responsible over anyone’s tachycardia but mine. Don’t overdose yourself on coffee. I do not encourage this sort of behaviour.
> 
> Just enjoy the fucking chapter, dammit, and stop reading my bullshit notes.

****

**_“Rain Is The Perfect Protector From The Rain.”_ **

_“Don't let the rain drive you to the wrong shelter; the shade can turn out to be your protector and also your destroyer, and sometimes the rain is the perfect protector from the rain.”_

**― Michael Bassey Johnson**

The hailstorm came too early into the Month of Ice, and no one at the Academy had seen it coming. It would cause an silent uproar on the philosophers through the night, and they would wake up those whom were asleep, and they would gather under the glass vault ceiling of the main hall, that they believed was indestructible, and in long robes and unclean faces, they would murmur loudly, like a cloud of hummingbirds flapping their wings, in hopes of being heard over the storm, but still sharing their thoughts quietly.

                All sorts of theories would develop; some of them absurd, others unlikely, others logical however untrue – while others simple and unfavoured would be right, but would not be heard. There were favourites amongst the circle, and while it claimed to be a selection of sorted citizens, all equals for the sake of Natural Philosophy, they were no less corrupt; they just happened to be more believable than the royals when they were corrupt. They would murmur and weave the facts at first; how they didn’t see the storm coming, but they should have, and how the whole Isle relied on them for the prediction.

                They would join facts to how it pleased them most; after all they had an image to maintain, and they would craft a web of other facts that would be handed the following morning early to be printed. Something about strange winds from Pandyssia, which clashed against the winds that followed the ocean torrents by the East; the clash of torrents naturally sent the hotter winds above towards the stars, and the coldest towards the earth. They would rant about a much worse storm that must have met the seas around the remote East Isles of Serkonons, thoroughly known for being habited only by pirates, and that this storm must have turned ships of all kinds.

                The mothers and wives of sailors would fear then, for such a storm must have desolated the ships passing by that night. The Philosophers would gather around their masters, and the most notorious on creating the convincing report would win prestige, and would climb another step on their social circles. The most intelligent and sharp liar would become king amongst rats, and his name would be at the papers all across the Empire the following weeks; so much victory, so much honour, from weaving facts to how it suit him best, using of knowledge and complex words to convince people that could barely read the headlines. Those that could read more, would remember mostly the name highlighted; and slowly that ladder towards social ascension would grow shorter towards the top, even though it seemed like they never saw an end to it, it was never _high enough._

                However, the hailstorm came not from the East or the West, North or South. It was a rain torrent that the sailors knew well how to identify but hardly knew how to read the papers to know the philosophers were lying; those men knew where it came from. A torrent of rain from the sea, dispersed but quickly raising from the waters, customary to the season, but also quite early. At the seas, where women thought their sons or husbands had perished, it was just another storm. Another torrent, that rolled colossal waves that rose like mountains, while the cutting air rocked the ship, and rocked things that needed to be strapped on the surface and within the cargo.

                Despite most, the biggest risk laid at their hands. If they were too careless, they could break something under the weight of the sliding cargo, or might slip out of the ship even though the experienced hardly had such problems. They might get colds however; with intense flus but that was nothing unusual either. A common day at the half of the year. But no hail, merely rain.

                Meeting Dunwall however, and joining the smokes of a fire and the icy waters of a flooded district, it drank up the chaos, and boosted itself. The Academy would say it arrived like this already, but it hadn’t, people deep inside their hearts knew it hadn’t. They could remember waking up at night and seeing the curtains of simple rain approach, and the women would hurry to close the windows and prepare the buckets for those knowing infiltrations on the roof. A bit more of wood on the fireplace didn’t hurt either, and the fishermen and workers along the coast could tell with ease the difference between a hailstorm and a rainstorm coming from the sea. When it passed through them, it had naught but thunder, lightning and water.

                Passing through the south of Dunwall, however, it reacted. The energised storm rumbled within and roared, almost as if discussing within itself when to fall exactly. The serpents that were entwined within the clouds hissed and roared, biting one another as they revolved closer and it rained, heavy and thorough and cold. They seemed to smell the air underneath, sense the smoke they were smothering and they watched, like Corvo did. They watched the fire and the chaos and the mourning, and they were angered.

                The people of Pandyssia had a name for that beast, the mass of snakes and serpents within clouds that bit itself, thundering roars and hissing lightning, and it had a human personification. Amongst many names, Corvo could recall _Shango_ as the most popular, or at least part of it. An aggressive god, angered and violent, that danced with the vipers and handled their eyes, turning their attention to what he aimed at. He stood as the symbol of resistance, standing in a last attempt to fight and unleashing one’s fire.

                The crow had a liking for those serpents he had marked on his skin. Their attention was at nothing, and their minds were beastly; if not pushed around by Shango, they would unleash chaos without discrimination. There was no truest, purest, most innocent chaos like theirs; the red clad God would pull, push and harness them like wolfhounds to hit special places, but their nature was powerful. They destroyed on their way in and out. There was nothing to blame on the beautiful beasts above. They weren’t to blame for their power, and had no awareness of the consequence of their endless fight. They were heavily and unknowingly influenced by their nose and ears, as their eyes couldn’t make it past the storm they created; only the red clad God could see.

                They always heard him caw however, and always handed a small bit of attention to him. Everything that he handed a piece of himself to, sold a little bit of his essence and opened the gates of his soul for, always left a little bit of itself into him. He had been with the rain enough to shed his tears, shed pieces of his mind, and let it mark his skin, enter his mind and voice. The lost his peace to the storms of the sea, and left the waters with its curse. _Wanderlust;_ the eternal desire to roam. He had beat his wings so close to lightning and hit by it so much, they were close acquaintances and scarred no more.

                Now his voice was familiar to the snakes, and he was the favoured duct between the energised ground and the skies; he was the strike, he was the thunder, and he was the rain. His gelid fear was hailstorm, hurrying to push a intruder away.

                There was no such thing such as aiming storms, only _Shango_ was said to do that, but the red clad God had never favoured him like the Whale deity had, solitary on his own pantheon. He could, however, rely on them to voice their anger along his, and lure the storms to surround and hit everything they could, be lured by his conductive body and use of him, without aim, without recognising anything but the familiar caw and electric feathers. It was like breathing the sea wall, or unleashing the Pandyssian plague; it knew no boundaries between the rich and the poor, the wrong and right.

                All walls and metal walkways rattled with the blocks of ice hailing from the sky, in punishing windblasts with rhythm, roaring against the walls. It had a voice, deep and long and that not all could hear.

                But she could, he guessed, and he intended her to. The Witch had made herself known and he returned the greeting with his own position on the subject, heeled boots clacking no louder than the ice and water on dusted, moulded floors, feathers being replaced by limbs and cloak, outside the Chamber of Commerce as he walked towards the awaiting woman.

                More than hate, more than instinctual, aimless chaos, there was an uncanny resemblance. Curious eyes, as he watched her and she watched him. Her careful, high heeled steps were like his, but she was wary over the wet, slippery stone she walked in – grass bloomed and gave her balance, carpeting the flooring before she stepped down in a blur of greenish cloud; it spared not too much light, like a cloud of spores, it shone but seemed a bit dull in brightness. Nothing like his lightning blue, nothing like _him_. Even so, the resemblance was there on the equally prowling Witches. The hail seemed to bother her and that she couldn’t avoid, neither the rain sheltered her like it sheltered him.

                He was in his ambient, she was not. But he had a feeling he was alone, and he wouldn’t make up enough time with his death; she would only be here if she had company, she was here to witness something and it made so much sense that plans had changed and she was here. Leonard, Delilah and someone. Corvo wasn’t the only one with blades at her disposal, blades and a coven to weave while Corvo stood alone, with nothing but the weather as advantage.

                For the first time he thought, perhaps, he had the chance to see what she was made of, and more importantly, of what he was made of. Witches, by nature, were clashing oracles; no one gave in to the previsions of the other, both always right from their perspective; there was no parliament on Witchcraft, but a king or queen sovereign and in the chaos underneath, dukes and duchesses that fought by nail and teeth to be unnoticed, unbothered by the others; or they passed over one another to reach what they wanted.

                There was no need for any deeper reason besides the synthesis of what they were. He wouldn’t bow down to her, stick out his neck in an allegiance where she would be eventually empowered enough to get rid of him, with his proximity sometime soon seen as a disadvantage.

                Daud had seen him as disadvantage; it had been there at his ruined tower, it was on his eyes; he didn’t plan on coming back. They worked well enough that it was not worth killing him at the end for the sake of certain ends, he broke their agreement before the end, right after having the lead he needed. But Corvo would rather trust the Knife than the Brigmore Witch, and the reason stood here, as she prowled like a vulture, awaiting to harvest from unguarded backs; but finding him here instead. She had reached her fingers like she promised, through influences no one saw coming. Daud didn’t see her coming. Corvo hadn’t either.

                No one could have seen her coming; he had no reason to stand against her and her eyes seemed to tell him so, on the same way she wanted to don’t delay the inevitable – she would have done her move first if not for the hailstorm, that clashed against her arm, her face barely shielded by it, as the other hand held a sword that looked made of bone or wood, but he doubted not on its sharpness. Her body covered in thorns and vines were like his, her arms dark were like his, shielded by a thicker dark skin, but instead of thorns he braced feathers as a consequence of his abuse of his talents.

                Had she overdone herself as well, studied so much her talents and developed them that now they were invading the surface of her skin, and setting her apart? Was he now following the same path? He could only wonder, as she made the ground grass and bright blue thistles under her foot, and Corvo’s feet tapped with the thunder.

                “So you are the Hound Pits Witch.” She addressed him, and he could feel his lips quirking up; sure he had made himself seen by a handful of people, but his name had never been uncovered, neither had it reached Overseers ears. Unlike her name of course, for come and go, there was the report of a Brigmore Witch here and there being questioned by Overseers at Holger Square or Coldridge. The burdens of having a coven, he would guess.

                His eyes and tattooed body lit up, as first came the lightning that fell not too many streets down, and directly after the bright light that his body shone equal to, came the thunder as well his greeting, a little over the sound of the hailstorm. “Miss Copperspoon.”

                The Brigmore Witch returned the grin, the same way he prized himself for not being known, she prized herself deep in her ego for being recognised and awaited; a whole storm conjured to receive her, might be against her plans but alas, didn’t it feel wonderful to be eagerly expected? Corvo expected nothing less if he ever came to march through the Brigmore Manor, behind an Assassin’s blade for anything that got too close, all the while he showed them what _true power tasted like;_ that their lives were full of wrong choices they had no excuse to make, and the biggest of them was that they choose the wrong Witch to follow.

                They were uncannily the same; but different. “Fly away, raven, and I will let you live a while longer until we cross paths again.”

                Corvo tilted his head, opening his hands that sported talons, and his feathers bristled as sharp as her thorns. Foreign to him, but also so natural, forced unto him by his bad choices and mistakes. He knew them already, from another body very familiar. They weren’t a sword, but they would have to make do. “I don’t think I can wait, miss.”

                “Very well then.”

 

* * *

 

 

                Regrouping made itself impossible as soon as they tried.

                The winds were merciless and there was hail – something he hadn’t seen before this south of Gristol and neither this unexpectedly early before. It arrived out of the blue, showering with water and ice shards that seemed to hit hard enough to bruise and cut, masks doing little to shield their skulls from projectiles and the Whalers regrouped by the Chamber instead, one by one gathering by the windows and yet, a decent distance from it.

                He didn’t understand at first, seeing Overseers tied by their feet and water cascading inside as well pieces of ice that the storm was throwing around, against the walls that he didn’t believe could withstand much more of the abuse. The survivors should be taking the Overseers to whatever cells they still had working and was mostly unoccupied by the remains of a prisoners. The wounded should have their wounds addressed – the tired should be having their rest, and Daud, he wanted to go out there himself and save their bodies from the storm. It was the least he could do, to count the numbers and say goodbye, one last time. Hear it echo on his burning heart that he was proud, very proud; then give them to the flames of a pyre, after they all had wished them goodnight.

                His chest hurt so much, it was hard to breathe. His skin couldn’t breathe, doused with blood that the rain had tried to wash off, and now it slid down his features, to pool inside his mouth as he panted. He still couldn’t understand it, the surviving Whalers watching the storm outside and the howls of the wind that sang – in whistling screams, in shrieks like hawks and glass against stone, so sharp to hear that they made the men wince more than the roaring thunders did.

                Daud didn’t understand, catching up to Billie in his Chamber of Commerce with so many Overseers around their feet; they didn’t seem to fidget too much, but seemed terrified nonetheless, enough to be silent. His men were the same, wincing and watching in silence. If the storm was too bad to actually get them to the makeshift cells, he could understand it.

                But when thunder roared, almost one strike after the other, his mark lit up with the electricity and for a moment, his burning heart feared a little more. Had been anyone caught on the storm? Had they looked up for the missing? If there was one Whaler still to be found out there, Daud would go outside himself – and he knew they would too, but alas, this seemed to not be the question. The main part of the Chamber was open to the skies, and the storm was making itself known through it, each day mistreating the flooring on the centre more and more, until someday it would dampen so much it would fall. Perhaps the ice shards and stones would finally put it down tonight.

                He had so much to do, so much in mind in his adrenaline driven heart – he couldn’t help but to call out over to Billie whom was clutching her sword tightly. “Billie. Give me a report.”

                She seemed to raise her head to look at him for a moment, but another lightning, loud and booming, made her look outside again, quickly. Daud followed her eyes, but he couldn’t make out much at the outside from the heavy rain and shadows.

                “We will take the Overseer who led the attack and find out –“ Another lightning and thunder, and the Whalers all winced as well did the Overseers, Billie not an exception, before she cleared her throat and looked outside. “…What else he knows as soon as he’s conscious. We, with the ones the Witch has freed, were able to capture these Overseers. The place is almost ours again.”

                Daud frowned at her words. That ‘ _almost’_ held a story of his own, and with the Overseers captured, he knew not what to take from it. His sword was slipping from his hand, and it did feel heavy to keep holding the blade. His throat hurt and yet, the rain water wasn’t enough to cool him down. To look at the zealots at his Chamber made his blood boil, if they couldn’t be taken away from his sight, he would rather see them dead or limbless.

                He had tasted so much blood today, and he wished he could find the slimmer of regret in his heart but he didn’t. It wasn’t there, nothing of regret or pity or humanity; instead his body shivered at the cold water on his feverish skin, dampening his clothes almost beyond mobility, and yet he couldn’t mind. It was tired in the most marvellous of exercises, part of him was sated, feeling whole with the sword on his hand, feeling like _himself_ once and for all; and now there was nothing else for him to put his sword in, he had to keep moving so to don’t catch up with the anger of his heart.

                The Overseers had deserved it, every little bit of sight of the swordsmanship of the Assassin, every little bit of transversal and tethering, making some bodies fade to ash as he killed, and the District was reduced to a conflagration; everything burning bright, reduced slowly to ashes and forgotten ruins, they would never be found by their loved ones, their bodies would feed the rats, more criminals would be taken from Coldridge and be turned into low guards; they would remain perverse and cruel, and on the street armed with swords and given Watch badges and immunity, they would make the lives of citizens Hell.

                He didn't care. Had been wonderful, and his body now shivered with that bloodlust that never was fully quiet, never truly sated, never truly gone. To try and keep his hands clean was like keeping a wolfhound bound to a small room and not a backyard. He would survive, restless and chaotic and would wrinkle and die from the lack of exercise; he would starve from the chase and his instincts would die on his mind. Perhaps, so would the mark on the back of his hand, and he would be free from ever seeing the Outsider again. There was pros and cons to being tame.

                But he didn't want to be tame. He had enjoyed and hated and burnt through this massacre that the Overseers had thoroughly deserved. He had enjoyed killing, there was never enough blood - if if his conscience knew it was better to remain clean. However, this offense, he couldn't let pass through. He wouldn't forgive the world for pushing him this direction, and punishing those that shouldn't pay for Daud's crimes. He couldn't keep his hands clean, and he hadn't wanted to.

                Now they remained restless, waving his sword anxiously as he waited for more, more news, more information, more reports, more for him to understand exactly what was going on. He needed to move, he had been set loose and he needed to move; but he silence that stood on the Chamber of Commerce was too thick to break. Billie seemed unwilling to talk, and in that minute no one did talk and he was growing impatient. No one, for a brief moment, seemed to notice him there enough to realise he was expecting an explanation; the fact that there was nothing being said, and no one telling him what he wanted to hear, made his blood boil.

                But before he could say anything, through the torn window on the corner of the room, with the roar of thunder and light of lightning, a black figure broke through the window to land through the damp wood and pull the floorboard in tears; talons dug like a sword digging into the floor or perhaps many of them in an attempt to control or slow down the fall. He pulled and dug wounds over the carpet to finally stand at the opposite end of the roof, slowing down from being thrown inside, as he slowly got to stand on high heeled boots and unburied his fingers from the flooring.

                He stood, black now from foot to his neck, and it was a hellish sight. There was nothing distinguishable on that figure, except the vaguely familiar features that were now almost changed beyond recognition. His overcoat was covered on feathers, and over his arms and chest they shone and reflected the lights; plated like blackened steel armour of sharp feathers, ending on talons just as black and long. The end of his spine sported the stiff end of his coat, fanning out in long train feathers and metal heeled boots. Almost as if he had never changed back fully, and both creatures mashed into one, crow and man in a battleborn beast.

                There was just enough time for him to stand and fill his lungs and the Whalers all cowered and covered their ears; knowingly lowering themselves for what came but Daud didn’t understand before it was too late - and he _screamed._

                The building rattled, windows shaking and thunder was accompanied by a hellish shriek that made him cover his ears in fear they would bleed. Lightening came just as fast to the outside, from the window he came from and a flash of green joined him inside, jumping forward to avoid the lightning there; so suddenly, the storm outside seemed more secure than staying inside the pit the Chamber quickly became.

                Delilah transversed inside, and from her feet patches of grass came to spring up, and from the Witch whom was green light at every step she took, she barely had rushed in before she stretched her arm and a thorn, summoned from her palm, quickly shot forward – just as quickly as  Corvo evaded it, just as fast as she transversed inside to hit him with it. His arm swept, and a mirrored spell seemed to come from it; three feathers, easily mistaken by knives fired back before she transversed away.

                His eyes could barely keep track of it – bouts of blue lightning and her green clouds, as the Whalers stepped back into the corners with the Overseers, and sought cover from the mayhem that had been outside, now made the Chamber of Commerce a battle field; it quickly became a forest of thorns and vines, that erupted from the floor and pulled at the Serkonan Witch, whom disappeared every time in swarm of rats that kept the odd plants busy as they were eaten alive. Transversals, one quicker than the other, in blue and green flashes they looked forward to catch one or the other by their blind spot, whenever they slipped for a second, or transversed to the wrong place; but they didn’t.

                There was feathers stiff like bolts littering the walls, and thorns dripping green and purple liquid over the same surfaces. Sometimes they got too close, and it collided then – sword and armoured arm, black nails digging into skin and clothing before either vines or lightning parted the Witches. A vine would reach out and pull him and pull him by the ankle aside, or it was lightning that hit from the open ceiling, that stung the painter enough for her to shriek ghat terrible sound, deafening and powerful; a scream that blasted wind strong enough to push the other away, but was returned on the same sound, strength and ability.

                The Witches were tearing the district apart; that was what the Whalers had been watching, and he couldn’t blame them as they scrambled back, pulling the tied and squirming Overseers along them towards the walkway outside; the storm stood better odds. Each shriek made him deafen a little more, each time they managed to get close enough to tangle up in a mess of swings – too quick to watch, too bright to understand – Daud got lost on the progression of what exactly was happening. His first thought, however, was to evacuate. Losing more Whalers today wasn’t something he was willing to do and they were tearing the place as they clashed, feathers and thorns missing them for inches. They would tear the district and the Chamber would be the first thing to fall.

                But in a brief second, he saw Delilah’s head turn towards him and the Whalers as she transversed away – and upon reappearing on the edge of the ceiling, she managed to call out higher than the storm outside. _“Stupid child! All you had to do was to cut his throat!”_

                Daud didn’t understand at first; he felt like no time in the world would be enough for him to understand what she said from how foreign it felt, the implications it carried, sounded impossible. Still, he wasn’t the only one following the Witch’s gaze to the Whaler by his side; and despite her being chased away by lightning, the trajectory her eyes accused was clear still. To the lightning and thunder, the Whalers cowered, but still followed the Witch’s eyes to the centre of their group, to Billie, clad in red as she took off her mask and didn’t meet his eyes, or anyone’s for that matter.

                But it was true. Daud didn’t understand, but it sunk into him silently and slowly and surreal. There would be nothing left of his home, torn between a Witch and Overseers. His eyes fell before Billie, whom took off her mask and it was her – wasn’t anyone disguised as her, was no one but her, with all the unmistakeable weight to her eyes in something that he had never seen with such intensity in her features. Her eyes passed quickly through his gaze, before she looked up to Delilah, or the flashes of Corvo and Delilah, and filled her lungs to scream back.

                “He deserves better! I was an idiot to listen to you!” She screamed, and the Witch shielded herself behind a vine as a rain of feathers fell towards her way, littering the squirming plant with bolts as it wrinkled and rotted on the matter of a second – the second she had to turn around and stop a hand full of talons from digging into her chest with her sword; but didn’t hold back lightning and the exchange of air blasts, echoing shrieks that made the building rattle.

                It didn’t burn his ears as much as Billie’s words did. He wished he was dead instead.  _“So this is your choice then!”_

                She transversed to the opposite side of the room; at times she chased, on the same amount she evaded and escaped Corvo – unclean and violent, a fight that could last for hours and would swallow up the district in their battle. Each transversal he could see a little more; could see the feathers that were buried on her skin, and the thorns digging into Corvo’s own; her lack of breath was his, abilities so similar but different, paired up and equal and there was no room for anyone else to join, much faster and chaotic than any fight he had ever seen; neither was one he wanted to join.

                _“Her betrayal would have been sweetest, but either way I will be your end! You should have forgotten my name the day you heard it!”_ Delilah howled, a moment before transversing away to evade the other Witch. She would slip, she knew, Corvo knew; they were chasing one another and her chances were ending, each time she turned her head to Billie, was a one second long window where Corvo dug in, and the air began getting red with blood he was starting to dig from her, bringing up green lights and vicious retaliation.

                She wouldn’t stay for long. But it didn’t seem to matter, her hatred burnt bright enough whenever he could see her eyes, which she stared into their soul for that simple moment before she had to engage Corvo again. However, it was the last as she screamed. _“If I ever see any of you again, I will tear out your stone cold hearts and wear your skin.”_

                A Witch’s promise was a curse, and with it, she transversed one last time and he didn’t see of her again. However, to the centre of the room landed Corvo, in a spark of blue transversal as he looked around; clearly searching and still expecting more – waiting for more.

                There was nothing. Instead, he turned to Billie, and the Whalers did the same to look at her.  Daud would rather be dead.

                How much more of life could he stand? To think, he had taken up the challenge of Delilah as the last step, the last will he would throw against the world and see how it unfolded. The last path he would take on a crossroads the choices of his life took him. A path where all the paths couldn't be walked back, it was as foggy to step back as it was to step forward, and all signs read nothing but an order; ‘know the way - decide’. It was as if all challenges never were sorted, they just changed shape and body. A life here, and another death - all questions of before being applied now; all the chaos he weaved with his sword now was brought within his halls.

                All he could expect were worse news; each step down whatever road, no matter what he chooses there would be an abyss. He wished so much he could tell the world to wait; wait for him, for he was waiting too, for a sign that would handle him the answers for his doubts. He just wished the world would hold on and wait for him. The walls seemed to be spinning all around, tunneling his sight as it hurried. _Know the way. Decide._

                Daud would rather be dead, than seeing her look at him, then look down, her lips draw in a tight line. He would rather see the world unfold in much worse, he would rather carry the weight of ruining an Empire and being to blame for all the rats and Weepers that were roaming Dunwall – he could handle that weight, he could fight the ghosts in the dark and he could bear the eyes of an Empress and her daughter in the back of his mind. He couldn’t however, see Billie this unreadable, as a hailstorm threw itself against the district and sometimes thundered, something cast down lightning out there.

                But not in here anymore, and not so deafening. Now there was just the hum of the heavy rain and falling hail, as she looked into his eyes and spoke up. “I think… It was always understood between us that I’d see my moment and take your place. I moved too early. You weren’t weak, as I thought.”

                It sounded so wrong, so distant, so much _like him._ The sort of apology that wasn’t apologetic, instead it was blaming the plan for not going as she wanted, not finding any other regret in her mind. How true was she really? Did her heart really grow this cold and distant, had he truly seemed so weak in her mind that everything in her was past and gone – that not only weak, he was soft and one sided in his care for her and for them. He would rather be dead than see her plotting to overthrow him and getting his men, _her men,_ killed because of such flawed plan.

                She sounded just like him. A lion, even when defeated. Burning and unwilling to feel remorse. The Witch had been thoroughly correct to say this was her choice. It was her choice, not a consequence of the world she lived on. Her choice to don’t feel remorse and his choice to don't believe he made her this way, made her _just like him._ “I’m only sorry I didn’t pick a better ally. Delilah made contact with the Overseers. I thought, between the three of us we’d have you dead to rights.”

                The storm was growing still, quiet and silent in comparison to the beating of his heart, drumming against his ears as he watched her, with his blurry sight, to kneel down and hold her sword up to him. “My life is yours now. Kill me, or let me live. If it even matters to you.”

                There was so much he wanted to say. How she had no right of being this distant when tonight he had been ready to die for her, to save her skin, any of them. And they had been willing to do the same, he was sure. There was so much to say about how it would haunt them to see a traitor on her; his word was law, and like it, her life was indeed his and he picked up her sword.

                He didn’t see enough of it for a moment, as he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had people worth praying for, and saying goodbye. For her, it might have not mattered in the slightest if the others had died because of this; but for them, it did. For Daud, it did. And his bloodstained hands weren’t getting dry anytime so soon, and he had people who needed medical care. He had Whalers to count and find.

                Daud didn’t want to see himself abandoning her body outside. He didn’t want to mourn another one. She deserved no forgiveness, and inside his heart, he truly wouldn’t give her that. But while she might not be able to feel regret, he did – it stung heavy and bitter on his heart, lots of it. She wouldn’t damage him further by being a new weight to his soul.

                “I forgive you.” He didn’t, he truly didn’t, and he never would. But lowering her sword again to her hands, he murmured, barely above the storm. “Get out of here. Leave the city. Leave my sight, Billie. I give you your life.”

                She was the fruit of his choices, she was the angry, bitter girl he allowed to shadow him home and everything began with that little bloodstained child, that he had prided and indulged himself the thought of raising her as his; a daughter to call his own. They were dogs of the same breed; they were of the same merciless gut and held the same ideals - of this bitter world, where only survived the equally bitter. The years he spent with her, the subtle care, the laughter and the blood, it all seemed to vanish on the blink of an eye.

                All gone in those dark eyes, a face so familiar and yet distant, of a stranger. There were just so many years that he could cram before fate gave away, hunting for him and he would be ash in the sand. And he was fine with seeing the hounds finally catch up with him, he was fine to see each one of them disperse and follow their own path, one by one. He was fine to see her trying to make her way up, reaching when he seemed weak, when she thought it was time. It was fine whatever comes; however was the end of his days. But as the lights partially shone against her features; so divine, the black angel of his life, he was ready to die to her blade.

                But not to see her fail, and taking so many of them with her failure; he wasn't ready to take her life, and he wasn't ready to say goodbye.

                He could give Billie her life, but she wouldn't give him his, she didn’t have the right to distaste him with this failure. Instead, she would haunt his dreams as well, in worse ways than the Empress did. Dunwall could crumble, but he would remain counting the deaths on her shoulders and so many deaths that he hadn’t been able to avoid, lives that mattered - this he couldn’t take from his mind. This nightmare was one he wouldn't ever wake up from; she sentenced him to it. And he deserved it, but the others didn’t.

                With a last look into his eyes, she dropped her mask on the floor and sheathing her sword, she didn’t say anything else. Perhaps was better this way, as she disappeared in a cloud of ashes, to never be seen again.

                The storm didn’t thunder anymore, and the sound of heavy hail was replaced by something lighter, gentler. It would cover the district in white before it was dawn, as if trying to subdue and smoother down what had happened here. The snow was the first of the season; a bit early on the Month of Ice and it probably would mix up with rain and hail more often. Right now, it was just a thought on the back of his mind, as the wind carried droplets of water that drummed against the wood quietly, and the snow that fell in between would cover and kill the grass that grew on the Chamber of Commerce.

                He couldn’t stand looking anymore at the motionless Whaler masks looking at him, or sometimes turned to the floor or the captives close to their feet. Their silence was an uproar, he could hear their hurt, louder than his own, more righteous than his own. His hurt was valid, _he deserved it._ But he couldn’t bring himself to listen to theirs.  No one dared to talk, neither did Daud, as he looked to the window to the snowing outside and he cleared his throat.

                “Dismissed.”

                Not really. They needed to shove the Overseers on their cells and makeshift cages and a few would make it directly towards the infirmary, leaving a Whaler with two or more Overseers to drag through their bound wrists to their cells. They were dismissed or free from their duties, and there was no untouched room for them to drop at; this job wouldn't ever end, and they wouldn't wake up from this nightmare either. Looking into their eyes every day and know the hole in their souls that was beyond his abilities to heal, that was Hell much worse than he deserved.

                One by one, the Whalers disappeared in their transversals, clouds of ashes out of the Chamber that too was being wrapped on a cloud. The Overseers on their boundaries, were silent. The air still reeked of smoke, blood and witchcraft. It was not worth speaking up, none of them.

                Still lingered by the ashes of the fires that had subdued. The surfaces were wet from rain, damaged by hail and lightning and even so, now the snow was smothering it down quietly. Daud wished he was dead. He wished he had forgotten the name _Delilah_ the moment he heard it, he wished he hadn’t closed his eyes like the glass doors to the Chamber, and he wished he hadn’t made an effort to don’t hear.  If this had been coming, he should have heard, he should have seen coming. It was his job to see it, and it had been right under his nose.

 He had always hoped that Billie meant more than her crude jokes, full of that cold distance she had always been characteristic for – who was she playing, herself, him, or both? Who was the biggest fool of the game, and why had the price be so high and so chaotically spread?

                He deserved to pay for it, but not his men. Sitting on his desk, he looked at his desolated Chamber of Commerce – there was so much planned for it, so much he wanted to fix and see better days arrive to the Whalers. There were so many people here worth fighting for; all of them were worth fighting for, and he had fought for all of them; he hadn’t asked from them that care and consideration the Master Assassin had for them. He hadn’t asked who would die for him; he hadn’t asked who had been playing, who had been faking loyalty for the sake of surviving in this awful city, and who hadn’t.

                Daud had killed for them nonetheless. He had been ready to die for them; ready to die for her, perhaps more than for anyone else; she had always been the favourite, she had always been the most skilled, a reflexion of him, and prided him so much. But apparently, her heart was indeed just like his – just a cruel, cold and harsh tongue, and the endless pride that he threw around so easily, but from her, he couldn’t bear being target. She was just like him, and because of it he hated himself so much. He was a blade that stabbed from the back – he was their medicine turned poison, even when he tried to care.

                He deserved this, but not the Whalers. Not the novices, that looked up to him even more lost than any other generation did. They looked at him with all hopes in the world, and needed a slimmer of reliability to cling to. They that had been alone through plague and chaos, they saw his chaotic security as heavens, and hushed loyalty into prayers and oaths. They had died for each other, died for him, and died because of her. Indirectly, because of him too, and it tasted like he had been the sword that ended them himself.

                His gloved hands were tainted with blood, the same blood that smeared his face, bathed him from head to toe and now began cooling down; perhaps soon enough, they would freeze. And the snow would try and smoother him down too. It was not Overseer blood he was seeing clot on his skin and clothes, but the skin of the children he vowed to teach and guard.

                Alone, he allowed himself to shed those tears he hadn’t allowed up to now. Let them freeze as well, let them freeze him too. Perhaps by the morning, he would be dead and frozen by the snow that wanted to cover all mistakes; may it cover him too.

                Never had he wished so much that he was dead.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explanations you deserve:
> 
> Corvo here is a tad powered up from the usual Corvo, but seemed like a necessary adaption. He isn’t a killer, he ain’t Lord Protector, most of those skills ingame don’t exist here and are only being replaced by magical skills that can be paired up / lined up to Delilah’s.  
> If you think that’s very foreign to you, I’m sorry. I will do my best to smooth it out for you. But sadly I cannot deliver a Witch Corvo without him being, well, a Witch. I might as well just make this prompt ‘not-a-fighter-Corvo’. He would end up being someone with zero fighting skills and abilities that put him way behind other witches such as Granny Rags, Delilah (who has more magic than brawl) and Daud (who has more brawl than magic).
> 
> Meanwhile, Corvo would have the in game magical abilities that perhaps can pair him up to Daud’s magic, but nothing of brawl or anything. This doesn’t make sense at all. To keep him with only his ingame abilities wouldn't be possible. So I approached it more like how Delilah has been approached by the developers. Their fighting consist of magic, nails, and more magic. She had a sword, but her swordcrossing strength had been shameful during the games, and she barely uses her sword. Let’s all agree the sword is barely used. She uses windblasts, briarhearts, thorns, blink and her statues more than anything.
> 
> So I will smooth it out a little for you, so it feels more fluid. Perhaps by the 4385735870th chapter I will have delivered everything. Jokes.
> 
> For your curious mind: Shango is actually an African deity, who takes part on many African rotted religions and pantheons. He is seen as a merciless, vengeful god of war and thunder, who wears red and white and destroys everything in his path. It is not that important to the story, merely a small detail given that the Abbey has killed many other religions, and Pandyssia, the pagan hub, probably has its own tons of religions and Gods. Corvo probably heard of some, as a Witch, he has to study stuff doesn’t he? Hell yeah. Complex faiths.
> 
> Also, it’s great to dwell a little on the main rule of black magic here. To do/become something, you give part of yourself and let this thing flood and take you over a little. If you treat lead like gold, it becomes gold (the concept of transmutation). Delilah’s masterwork is a canvas sewn from the same machine that made Emily’s dresses; her brushes are the girl's hair. The painting IS Emily, in essence and synthesis, and the ritual show this. This seems to main concept behind Delilah’s magic, and I have taken the liberty and mission to follow the rules and example.
> 
> Everything has prices and consequences. The only free and safe thing here, ironically, is the Outsider’s Mark; that gives you security to do this and that without overdoing yourself with consequences beyond what you know. It’s a tool, a passport, that unmarked Witches do not have. Piero suffer from brain fevers and paranoia just from being touched, for dreaming of the Void. Uncalculated, unrequired damage example right here. Having a mark is almost easy in comparison.
> 
> I hope the lore fans will find this work and indulge on these thoughts with me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, please do write a comment, will you?


	11. Secret Sorrows.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the mission The Surge. Daud can't just go ahead and move on from the loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you should put aside coffee and Blind Guardian and have some tea with me.
> 
> This fanfiction has gotten to the two digit number of chapters, and trust me it’s almost a relationship by now. We are friends already. And as a friend and a proper Brazilian, I will get inside your home and demand you brew some coffee/tea for me.
> 
> I also demand that you write a comment to share with me what do you think of this work so far. What you look forward to and stuffy stuff. And come forward with suggestions and questions! It might even change the course of the story - I tend to have a plan to develop but a lot of stuff is edited in and out and adapted towards the end. What you write does make a difference.
> 
> So do write something and brew coffee for your favourite Brazilian friend. My friendship is not optional. Now you have read this notice, you are officially my friend. Assume the consequences and burdens of it

**_“Secret Sorrows.”_ **

_“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”_    
**_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_**

****

****

                Dawn came in a few hours, a pale, faint orange over the horizon, in such a serene sight that painted the skies. He loathed it.

                It was almost as if the world dared to mourn the people it had taken, and on the same way, it wanted to carry on, beautiful at parts as if it hadn’t taken what made this sight worth living for. As if it hadn’t taken something even more beautiful than that dawn.

                No one had slept through that night. Very few Whalers were up and patrolling; and almost half of these numbers had shown up at his desk, with letters and masks in hand; firm gazes that were sure of their decision but not cold hearted enough to meet his red eyes.

                Letters of goodbye. They had kissed their brothers and sister farewell, had cried in all senses for those that left, before doing the same. There was spare masks and letters he was yet to read on his messed up desk.

                It had been there, he just hadn’t heard. Billie wasn’t the only that had shared the thought this was his end. She wasn’t alone on agreeing that he was better off, plagued but without plague, and she would be better at the lead. Sometime before his arrival, Whaler had faced Whaler with swords, and they had clashed amongst the Overseers, the few that stood, surprised and cheat, were forced to retreat or die at Overseers’ hands or their own fellow Assassins.

                Now, barely above thirty men and women, with most of them bedridden, the Commerce Building felt haunted; ghastly and lonely, bathed in the dark colours of the night and the incoming brightness of dawn, in a quick moment that lasted too long as the colours battled, in a dance with already a winner. The world knew it already, that before too long only the daylight would reign but still they collided mournfully slowly, in a beautiful painting that the world didn’t have the right of painting.

                It didn’t have the right to pretend it was mourning. It didn’t have the right to stretch that idleness and peace, as the winds subdued and no longer dragged forth the remnants of fire and ice. Instead, it blew just gently, almost unnoticeably in its touches, the delicate artwork of snowflakes as all surfaces were hidden their bloodstains and ashes and fallen bullet shells, shrapnel and swords. Instead, the district was carefully cushioned in white, something they had all enjoyed and hated to see in a not too long while ago.

                It used to have a flavour of exquisite vacation and pleasant work. Their tired bodies always provided heat, and they slept longer in those longer cold nights. He would catch some cursing the snow under their breaths, but not an hour later he would find these same men kicking the piles of snow at one another. There were buckets of it brought inside and dumped on the heads of whomever dared to oversleep. They would rumour tales and fantasy from the icy drawings that came to be on the foggy and frozen windows.

                He would write of those shenanigans on his journal, and despite most it would make him scoff in amusement – why hadn’t he allowed himself to smile at it? Now it didn’t bring the same joy, but only brought that mourning melancholy on his halfway drunk, overly tired mind as exhaustion caught up with his body but he wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t. It was so hard, to try and avoid the names that came to mind when he thought of those wintery shenanigans, usually native to the first day of snow.

                Daud failed, and every name came back to him in a list, repeating itself and dwelling and not only bitter, but worse yet, doused with a rotten sweetness – in the manner which dreams were addressed; as if anytime now, the people whom those names belonged would come into sight, kicking snow or complaining about being doused in it as they slept. Felt as if anytime now, they would show up or walk through the doors, into the wintery yard that the Chamber of Commerce always seemed to turn into, and would voice their complaints, or silently kick it around as they waited to be addressed.

                Eventually, it would get a paper or crate of his wet, and he would scare them with a sudden jump and a roar to keep them still – always caught them off guard, but had no bitterness; he had enjoyed so much to catch them off guard.

                He wouldn’t enjoy that again. He didn’t have the right to enjoy that again, or their warm drinks natural of the winter, or the baked goods a few would conjure either from their own ovens or brought from the street. It was a pleasure he was forbidden of having and it hurt, it hurt so much that the world seemed to dare to give it to him now, seemed to dare give this playground for the men that had no disposition or desire to enjoy. Some of them didn’t even have lives to enjoy it anymore.

                Daud loathed it. Its beauty was painful. He would tear it apart until he tired and froze his hands; but there wasn’t strength anymore on his body to do so.

                “This must be one of these moments where you wish you had a roof.”

                Not only that, but he wasn’t alone in his mourning, he was reminded. There was someone that hadn’t vanished from the Chamber of Commerce, but also hadn’t made himself know, and hadn’t left his side as if he could hear every bad thought on the Assassin’s mind.

                He grew to accept, with disgraced, incapable resignation, that Corvo did indeed roam through his mind, his heart, and every one of his secrets. With his closed eyes, he could get through everything that was Daud, everything he ever thought, ever felt, and ever would experience, and nothing was personal anymore. He had no more fire to resist to it, and that unwilling resignation had been just allowed in. It was not a fight he had energy to fight anymore. Neither was it worth it.

                The Witch had stood outside through most of the storm, walking, roaming. All the crows that must follow the line of the river now were hidden inside the broken and ruined buildings, in whatever crevices they could stuff themselves in – silent, unlike what one would expect of a community of black birds, always a small group shadowing the biggest of them; the Witch whom seemed to lead the group.

                It was a murder of crows and their king. Or, perhaps, an _unkindness_ of ravens. If only Daud had found more interest on literature classes at the Academy, and hadn’t swapped it for taxidermy.

                It was a flock of birds, of the genus _Corvus,_ from their own family, _Corvidae,_ that they shared amongst them, ravens, crows, jackdaws and rooks, and they all cawed the same tongue, and almost always wore the same coat. One that Corvo wore on his skin as well, changed so drastically like another coat of in-between beasts. His arms over the windowsill, crossed over the snow, shone with a little of dawn’s orange light. They seemed soft now, but hadn’t been the night before. Had been the same colour and stiffness of his nails, long and a little curved downwards, thick like talons and just as dark.

                His palms were still whiskey coloured, however. His hands stuck out of the sleeve he wore, and still black veins seemed to stand on his skin and warp around his fingers like fishnets, torn and with wide holes. He didn’t seem too warm, but there was no place warm at the city right now – not even close to it. Just gelid weather, and lukewarm hearths and tears.

                The Witch, despite the terrifying sight, was a delicate, grieving beauty. His coat had glued to his skin, and swirled to the wind against him no more. However, the sewing still dictated the direction his feathers grew. Upwards towards his shoulders, they stood taller and sharp like the shoulder pads of noblemen and women; contrasting with the pattern of his chest that brought the feathers to grow downwards, slick and subdued. The only mildly loose thing seemed to be around his waist, where feathers merged in tail feathers and fanned the ending of the coat. Feathers sparsely stuck out on his calves, pointing backwards sharply, just like the ones that followed up around his neck, to frame the curves of his jaw; by few not stabbing underneath the bone, if not lightly pointed outwards.

                Crows were the images of incoming death and misery, and indeed that was his Witch; since they had crossed paths, he had only brought ruin. But alas, there was nothing more for him to destroy here, nothing else that he could take from the Master Assassin; if he was watching for the moment to feed on his carcass, Daud was here – worn out of fight, awaiting that death. The black bird would be merciful to give it to him. But he didn’t. Instead he watched, and talked at times; the first time in the hours of this new dawning day, but bringing no more news.

                Daud wished he would do the same, put on the same black attire to mourn his men. But alas, he was hoping the night would come forward and take him in his sleep. If only he could sleep.

                He tapped his cigarette, cheap and waterlogged, past the Witch to the snowy outside, before he brought it inside again, back to his lips on the expensive chair by the window – the wind was what kept it from getting wet as well the night before. Corvo watched the movement, silently and serene with his black eyes; like the consort of the Leviathan he was, now he shared the Outsider’s eyes, black endlessly, except that Daud could see a ring of irises, a dark grey, almost unnoticeable, but that tended to reflect the light. And like his feathers, against the morning light, they were orange and warm.

                “I prefer the original.” He found himself murmuring mindless; was it about the cigarettes, or about the Witch’s eyes, he himself knew not, and apparently neither did the crow, or he just didn’t mind. When, he rested his gloved hand against the window, to make sure it wouldn’t drop ashes indoors, his clawed hands were gentle to open his fingers, just enough so his talons could get the cigarette from him, and he ever so slowly brought them to his lips as well.

                The Master Assassin had nothing to say. No explanation to give to what had happened, or anything to offer. It still felt foreign, even if so vividly painful, the thoughts of the night before haunted him as the worst of nightmares. Besides the massacre he had weaved, he didn’t know much more of what had happened. There were still feathers and thorns decorating the walls, now with small piles of snow over them, and he wasn’t sure about that either. The only thing he knew was that it had been the most surreal fight he had seen. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure if that had been a fight to begin with; more like the world clashing unto itself.

                Lightning hitting trees, the waves of the sea against sharp rocks at the sea. The violence of waves during storms; as surreal as it could be, and alas, something he couldn’t fight with. Fiddling with Delilah sounded like such a bad idea now; he couldn’t regret it any more than he already did. That the building still stood was a small miracle in itself, or perhaps a curse. Outsider knew how much he wished he had perished as a casualty, or perhaps quickly as a target. It didn’t matter.

                Corvo blew the smoke away, quietly through his lips before turning the cigarette to put it back between Daud’s fingers. “There’s stew on the kitchen. It’s a bit too heavy on salt, so is the bread, but maybe you should get yourself some.”

                He wished he had the strength to laugh to it. He didn’t want to know who dared to cook stew – it never ended well. He had a feeling the filters weren’t cleaned like they should, and if they even worked would be to ask too much of the world. The water used on it was probably flood water, making it salty and plagued and he had no desire to see how resistant they were to the contamination. On a second note, perhaps he should drink that stew until he drowned.

                “…They have tuned the strings, cleaned the pipes, and dusted their instruments. In an hour, they will play.” He spoke again, and while Daud closed his eyes with a sigh, bringing the smoke deeply into his lungs, he didn’t have it in him to be annoyed by the company; it didn’t sound forced, even if he wanted to believe so. It was like the tick of the clock; ever present and quiet, telling him of facts he couldn’t avoid in his distant, dream like state. But it didn’t force him to wake up either. “Keep the doors open – and don’t ever close them again. Make an effort to listen.”

                Was he talking still about the music, or was he talking about the Whalers? He didn’t know, to be honest; and like himself not a while too long ago, it felt like it was meant to stand for both of them, he talked to both, about both. And by the Void, he was right in everything – the crow didn’t lie, never did so. He had planned to don’t be there at the pyre, he planned to close the doors and don’t listen like he had always done, and he knew he shouldn’t, more than ever he could feel the need to be away and distant but alas, he didn’t have the right to.

                The world was really merciless, forcing him to walk on the pathway of burning coals, all the way towards his own execution – making him feel every sensation, every sentiment that burned from inside out and the world, not Corvo, seemed to want to make him relive it until he couldn’t hold the tips anymore; and reduce him to a broken man, a shell of what he had been. The world wanted him out there, right now, to be reminded and present at the burial of who he had murdered and Outsider’s eyes, that was the only sort of end he wouldn’t bear; to see himself broken like a bankrupt Aristocrat, absolutely surrendered to the defeat of his life, ready to take it from himself.

                That he couldn’t bear. To go outside with them, and listen to them play for their brothers and sisters - that he couldn’t do. His gloved hands reeked of blood, but as he sunk further on his chair, it was a stench he deserved as he pressed his palms against his eyes, pressuring down until his vision sparkled spots of white light behind his eyelids. And he took a deep, shaky breath that rumbled against his clogged throat; leave him blind and deaf instead of witnessing that. It would be much worse than imagining it on his mind – and he had thought, once, that the world couldn’t hurt him any worse, he knew that it just outdid itself.

                But slowly, his hands were taken from his face, by clawed, gentle hands, and Corvo was inside, making sure to take his hands from his face slowly and carefully – the birds outside cawed at a distance, but enough to wake him up had he been asleep; put him back into this world he wanted so desperately to avoid, as he warped a hand around his wrist, and tugged soundlessly.

                What made him comply, perhaps, was only the debt he had with the black bird; or the debt he felt he had, to the creature that like the black-eyed Leviathan, seemed to be behind all the ruin that had come to his life. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to hate him – either one of them. It was unbearable, and that was why it was perfect. This was the perfect judgement for him, on the fringes of a dying world, and a dying city; it was a penalty that knew no boundaries, and didn’t limit itself to just him, but everyone and everything around him. It was cruel, way crueler than any end he could ever conjure on his mind and that was why it made it perfect. It was the end he deserved, broken and progressively, alone; or worse yet, haunted by living souls he forced to the same fate he built to himself.

                The black bird had been thorough on every one of his deliverances; creative ruin, to fates much worse than simple death. He was effective, the harbinger or ruin and dismay, and Daud would have hated him if only he didn’t deserve everything fate threw at him; brought by the crow with warm hands, that brought him to his feet like a child would tug a drunken parent up from the cold streets to drag him towards home.

                He walked slowly, making sure sometimes that Daud was following by looking over his shoulders, as he ever so gently led the Assassin to close of the fireplace, where the heat already breathed warmer, enough to make him realise how could he had grown under the snowing sight. His fingers were blue and shaking, in a contrast to his reddened eyes that the reflex on the mirror mistook, for a moment, for a Weeper and so did he. But alas, his bloodied face wasn’t from his eyes, and his tears had done little to wash it off; and he had closed his eyes, until they didn’t come forward anymore.

                He didn’t have the right to mourn those he had killed. The Master Assassin had already pretended to, worn black for people he had killed, he had tasted regret of course; he would be inhuman if he hadn’t regretted things in his life, the Empress just happened to be the second greatest now, but alas, he had never mourned the life of someone he took. Regretted, but mourning was a whole new thing. It spread greyness on his heart, stilled everything to an abandoned household where music played no more. Everything was forbidden, everything was unworthy; his tears were unworthy, beauty and happiness were unworthy things. He hated the world that dared to move on, that didn’t mourn what happened like he had.

                It felt like he would never manage to move on. It was as if the sun would brighten the walls but it didn’t burn anymore, and he remained feeling cold to lukewarm. The sun was but one of the essential joys of the world that he was not forbidden of having; it didn’t walk past the doorway, in mourning houses, no one was welcome but him and his darkened thoughts.

                No one walked in, but the spiders made company, covering like the snow everything he owned and every pride he had ever flashed. The orange light reached far, and the fire was hardly welcome except for its lukewarm touch that for the moment, kept him alive. It was just enough to keep him breathing however still shaking cold. The cold snow mourned too, like an ungrateful memory of the preciosity it had been once, and like the clothing that wrapped the dead, it was surrounding and flooding his sight, the district and his men.

                The spiders made company, but so did the crows. And they were the only voice that broke the silence that felt right _;_ not because he wanted them here but because he deserved the cloud of the creatures that gathered under the ceiling; he deserved the ruin they were rumoured to bring, he deserved the _murder_ and the _unkindness_. He deserved the end they would bring, the chaos and doom and their presence signalled his incoming end – so he wanted them there to give it to him. His relieving, well-earned end by the tip of talons, a sword or a curse, that would steal him through the night when the birds could be mistaken by the night itself.

                Instead, he found his cold skin being brushed by warm air, and those talons never had reached for his heart with the violence he had witnessed the night before. He felt delicate digits touching his skin, and warm water and soft cloth being brushed against the litany of scars on his skin – crisscrossed and embroidered chaotically over his tattooed skin, that now was torn in new open wounds and clotted bleedings that he had hoped would fester, and take him during the night. Instead, they were addressed with all the timeless tenderness one would expect of a beast of the void.

                He never would understand that what was meant to give him ruin, was here sewing his skin back in place, unpredictably playing the card of a saviour when he expected - downright wanted – the carnage he could bring. He was expecting the storm to don’t end there, and he had expected to see the building fall from the clashing of Witches; he had hoped he would have died crushed by it. He had expected before he left, he would forget about Witches and Overseers all together and only the thought of those who mattered, who really mattered, would be there on his mind like they were now; hoping that at the Void, they would find peace and wait for him, uninteresting enough to never gather the attention of the Leviathan ever again. Peace, after all, wasn’t interesting.

                That was what he wanted, silence and peace; which ironically, was what Corvo was handing him, but not in the way he had hoped. There was silence from his lips and his eyes, he could try to hear and see deeper than that outside but whatever he came up with it, whatever justification he came up, would be untrue. The crow let out nothing on his serene expression, and he could try and take an offense of it, but he couldn’t either. He didn’t know what lay within, and he wouldn’t ever know. Any assumption would be wrong, and like what his fingers were weaving now, what laid inside probably would prove to be just as unexpected and contradictory.

                His eyes closed so he could have his face rubbed off blood, dried carefully with a towel before he straightened his position just enough so he wouldn’t oppose to his talons. He didn’t offer resistance, he didn’t want to offer it. There was nothing burning in him anymore, just the shell of a broken beast as he watched pieces and shards of shrapnel being taken from the surface of his skin – not deep enough to be a real danger or require any sort of specific forceps; the nails spreading his skin and carefully pinching the pieces to drag them out still on the surface of tissue, it made his hands tighten at his sides but nothing more. Sadly for him, they weren’t even deep enough to hurt.

                The stitches his fingers weaved were far different from Devon’s, they had a seamstress’ delicateness; something tighter and discreet, using more loops but alas, with a slimmer, more uniform result unlike the reinforced crossed knots of the physician. Daud couldn’t help but to wonder if the Witch would bleed his thumb and usher whalesong against his skin, turn his bones into a rune and make it echo against his skull. He wouldn’t see it coming, and wouldn’t have moved away from his dark lips if he did; he would have allowed the black bird to curse him and put an end to it.

                He never did it. Instead he weaved his fingers and talons and his dark eyes with a shadow of irises, the only part of them that reflected light, never lifted from his work. Daud could almost see himself on those faint rings, like jewellery dropped into the dark Wrenhaven with its muddy waters, some light and every light, were reflected by them and nothing else; a foreign brightness in the darkness, the moon at dark nights, or the contrast of black birds against the wintery scenery. Forsaken and foreign. But also the only presence that he couldn’t bring himself to hate – chaos and ruin where the home of crows, it was Daud whom was trespassing, it felt like.

                “This,” He found himself murmuring, turning his jaw to the Witch and his hands, as Corvo worked a cold mixture against his wounds before wrapping them in bandages. There wasn’t many to begin with, but they bled a fair amount – the care wouldn’t save his life, but would avoid many issues. Issues that on the depths of his mind, he hoped would come anyway, and take him away. “Doesn’t seem normal. Or is it?”

                The Witch looked up at him, for a brief moment only just enough to catch what he meant before he shook his head slowly, nails tearing the excessive ends of bandages before he put the tools away. They had to be cleaned before stored away, and that he knew of it didn’t surprise him. Did he sew to pieces people anonymously on the streets, like physicians would often do and be shunned on their circles for it? He could see such a thing; Corvo didn’t seem one for neither charity nor reaping, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the Witch sewed people on the streets at night – or sacrificed them for elder Pandyssian Gods, he wouldn’t be surprised by either.

                “No, it isn’t.” He said with a sigh, that broke the serenity on his features to pursue his dark lips a little more; all the while the Witch got up to sort what hadn’t been used of the box and put it back in place. What had been used, he warped around the dark, bloodstained towel, and the bowl of hot water he carefully poured outside the window, just making sure no Whaler would be underneath before he did so.

  His feathers seemed as soft and luxurious as a nobleman’s bedsheets, a delicate contrast against the sharpness of talons, and the voice that followed, was just as silky; deep but fluid, like the smokes of incense, raising idly and slowly and curvy, like the rocking of a decked ship; almost still, but gently rocking like a lullaby of bad stories – the voice of the harbinger of loss, a voice whom could bring the worse news of the world, and its serenity would deliver the words of the end as kindly as he could. It held itself in the air, for a moment, before he spoke again.

                “It is but the price I pay for the tricks of yesterday. There is loss everywhere today, why would I be immune to it?” Seemed shocking, to hear the neutrality of the beast was as faux as the Leviathan’s; he was neither bad nor good, but cruel and kind all in one, and picked his favourites in his haste, but Daud would never know if he was the favourite, or the least. The Leviathan’s or the Witch’s, he wasn’t sure who favoured him the most and the least.

                Surprised him also, that things could escape Corvo’s control. It was a concept that made him seem a little more human, even if he looked less and less like it every second that he passed watching the creature he became – wicked and beautiful in a way only the Void could produce such beasts. Ended up Daud was cursed with being haunted by ghosts, and Corvo wore it on his skin; witchcraft exposed, like the deafened pirates whom listened to the whales too much, or the seamstresses who lost their fingers making runes, and now the Witch who was human no more.

                Could he even go back to where he lived like this? His Whalers could hide in plain sight, take their uniforms and put on whatever clothes, and the world would be out there, anew for them to face with another identity, a world of witchcraft and death would be forgotten and would fade from their bodies slowly, like the district would sink into the floodwaters; but not the Witch. Would he and Delilah forever carry what made them heretics so close to the surface?

                “Can this be reverted?” He asked, for right now he just couldn’t hold back from asking. Instead of an immediate response, he was left to watch a couple crows landing by the handrail by the second floor of the Chamber of Commerce, and how the Witch just murmured something to them, for a brief moment, before putting the empty bowl aside as he walked to the wardrobe to the side; target of Daud’s exhausted gaze at every turn.

                The answer, for some reason, was laden with an unknown weight that also burdened Daud’s soul, amongst a plenitude of anchors he was dragging behind his soul, each step insufferable; he could walk no more. “Not that I know.”

                To think he probably made the Witch homeless as well all the ruins he caused others, people he cared for a lot more than the Witch; the people he loved, and now he couldn’t even bear to hear. It was so harder now, to shoo the creature away and tell him to vanish, find the hole he lived at and take his _unkindness_ – or was it a _murder_? – and leave him and his men alone once and for all, and take with him all the ruin he brought. It was so harder now, to find the voice to scream him away, to push him away.

                Still, when he came closer to cover his shoulders with an extra thick blanket he found by the wardrobe, Daud held his wrist from walking away just yet. This was another weight to his soul that he didn’t want, and before Corvo could tie another anchor to it, he took a deep breath to murmur, as firmly as he could summon fire for. “Leave. Get the fuck out of this building, of this district. I don’t want you anywhere close to me or my men, not ever again.”

                There was no more fire, but he would forever be a creature of warmth, if not heat, and the certainty of steel; heavy and sure and never dented. No one ever saw flaws to his voice, or if they did, they never let him know. It was firm enough to don’t ever be argued. And looking up, he dared to read shock on those features.

                It was unfair, and he knew it. He might regret it for the rest of his life, but by far, telling Corvo to leave under the aim of wristbows, it wouldn’t haunt him that much; it would just be the seasoning of much heavier mistakes, he would once upon the season come haunt him, and that was it. But was much lighter to let go of that ghost now, than to grow anymore fond, and see him once more turned more and more damaged for his witchcraft. He wouldn’t carry this weight, and he wouldn’t allow Corvo to tie that to him again either. It was unfair, but it was his right. He had all the right in the world to turn his back now; and Daud would do it.

                He had all the right in the world to don’t take up responsibility now. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t have that determination in him anymore, so now was unfair, but _right._

                And Corvo was indeed, the personification of punishment for all his sins, for the resemblance of shock gave way to a steely offense on his features, that half-lidded his eyes like the ever cold sight of a statue – painted exquisitely, and distant but also so close with his words, a living contradiction. “You lie.”

                “No I fucking don’t.” He answered too quickly, and his eyes said _goodbye,_ all of his said it; he told the Witch to leave with his voice, with his features, with his fists, with the burdened curve of his shoulders. It was all flawless, all firm, all the last remnant of steel and firmness summed up, and he was a professional at what he did; he knew everything of his told the Witch to leave, nowhere did he show otherwise.

                And then he knew, Corvo truly could see more than just his features and his body and his words; he saw beyond. He reached to the Void, and from the endless swallowing pits, he had the talent to spawn into the Master Assassin’s head in some way; he hadn’t contradicted himself in nothing, but the crow must have known in some way, in any way. Knowing without the intention of that expelling wasn’t enough for him. It was written on his lips, the way they straightened in a tight line, in a quirk that seemed to don’t know what to say, and it hurt so much to break the rules of nature like this; there was nothing that Corvo _didn’t_ know… He was dirty for it, a heretic for ruining such things; from the most pure to tainted creatures, nothing was as dark as him for tainting such creatures.

                His hands and talons were firm on the edges of the covers, for a moment, caught between just turning the Assassin towards his face or to strangle him; Daud was hoping for the later, but instead, his words were carrying a weight and mist that broke the serenity it always had. The more the crow saw and spoke, the more did Daud lie - and it seemed to contradict every line of thought, be out of the expectations of the two of them. It put the Assassin out of his comfort zone, and the Witch out of his pattern; nothing made sense.

                It was almost like love, but wrong and inside out. “You can lie to everyone, even yourself, but not me.”

                Hit so low, and yet while he looked into this dark eyes, his eyes didn’t meet his. It didn’t need to be so hard; it didn’t need to drag out so much. He didn’t need to claw at him and he didn’t need to pick a pistol to shoo him away, it didn’t need to be torturously slow, neither so sharp. They didn’t need to part this way. It was a little beyond pride, was much greater than these rules pre-set of never dragging oneself on the mud for someone – anyone for that matter. It was a bit beyond, such rules a little forgotten; instead lived that sensation of suffocating, non-existent walls that made every word too loud.

                It wouldn’t pass through these walls, no one needed to know the way he felt talons dig on his chest, and the way Daud lied, and lied, and lied; in an endless chant, that he wouldn’t ever let go of, lying until it would become true, until his lies and the choice he wished was true was heeded. It wasn’t, however. Not even the Master Assassin believed himself, as his hands didn’t obey him, and reached for the Witch’s feathered sides – and any vengeful soul would have stabbed his toxic hands with them.

                But instead, he had never touched such a soft thing, and the Witch met his lips with a desperate, dragging gentleness like a plead – just as unimportant as Corvo was for him, the Assassin was for the Witch, he didn’t allow himself to forget it; but it tangled in itself like a bag of snakes, and he wasn’t sure what was chemistry and what wasn’t anymore, why fear reacted into itself in such way, and why he allowed himself to drag those torturous minutes, why he hurt himself this way…

                …The same way Corvo did, holding the Assassin by his hair and dragging them down, until he had the Witch with him in bed; unhurried and quiet, without fire but full of that angst of his heart, full of mourning. He mourned, and that was why he wasn’t allowed nice things; this wasn’t nice. It was unspoken distress, and stubbornness that lied, them both lied to one another in a kiss that longed like lovers – they were not lovers. It was almost sweet if not so full of melancholia and intimacy without hurry, and they were never intimate, never were they close to begin with.

                But they lied. They could lie so well, and when he parted from his mouth, the Witch looked up at him from the mess of his hair against his mattress; so beautiful, but also so knowing, with gritted teeth. It was never about knowing the truth – it didn’t matter what was the truth; just mattered for him to hide why he lied, and the crow that knew the truth and the lie; now could see the why - and the enlightenment in his dark eyes seemed to shine there for a moment, with the grit of his teeth before his talons brought him close again.

                He was unkind on his unspoken words, the torture of _staying_ was murderous; the raven king was all reasons why he should leave before Daud could regret every feather he put on the Witch’s body, before his mind caught up with the events and he hated himself more. But as well, his presence was the torture he deserved, was the hurt the Knife knew he deserved; and surprisingly, made him forget the weight of everything for a brief moment – a escape, and the Witch knew it, them both knew it, even if their lips lied.

                “I can’t repay you for fighting Delilah.” It wasn’t a lie, for once, but he knew as well that Corvo was aware of it; it was a truth that he needed so much to point out, that the Witch needed to hear, more than just see.

                The Witch was investing on a knife, a blade that would be in debt with him, forevermore perhaps. He was not a blade; it didn’t seem like it anymore. He had been a knife the night before, and now ran out of it - it was gone now. Corvo was investing so much of himself for this unspoken deal and Daud knew he wouldn’t pay him enough, even if at the end he had the world and with it, he did whatever the Witch asked of him – it wouldn’t repay enough, he would never manage to repay on the same price.

                However, he shook his head a little bit against his bed, and his limbs slithered to pull the Assassin fully down – until he could feel feathers against his bare stomach, tickling bruised skin and sounding dry against bandages, and he fit perfectly right there; tangled up on the Witch’s grasp as his lips were led to his. It was adoration, but inside out. A make pretend, pretend there was more to it as he felt his nose against his own, pretend there was anything there as he met his lips with his own, fleeting and warm and searching; they both searched there things they wouldn’t find.

                And that awareness that them both lied, and that they were nothing, and that this was a deal that entertained but wasn’t worth it – it made it slow, and tender. His rough hands found gentleness to trace the curve under his ribs, to the well-drawn angles of his waist, to a hip that he had no idea how to undress – neither had the intention to tire sorting out how to.  This was good enough for him, comfortable torture, and they found lukewarm gentleness to it before Corvo murmured against his mouth.

                “Somethings can’t be bought; no one can pay for my choices but myself.” Despite his lips lying against his, his words didn’t. The sting however, was minimised by fingers that despite talons, or because of them, were exquisite to feel against his scalp – not too sweet, but intensely bothersome on the same quantity it was relaxing and tender; and on the same way everything was in tangles, so were their legs, so was his raven hair over the bedcovers, so were Daud’s thoughts and heart.

                “You aren’t the only one that pays for it. Everyone around you do too.” How long had he ignored the idea that he wouldn’t pay for his sins, that the world didn’t punish wicked people? It truly didn’t, but everything that goes sure comes back sometimes, in uncontrolled, unstoppable ways, and didn’t hit him alone. He wished he had realised it before, much earlier than that.

                He would regret tangling up the kind, neutral Witch in this life of his, he would forever regret staying with him, lingering against him and forgetting everything, for a moment; not forgetting his mourning, but forgetting the world out there; tangled on his limbs, he wouldn’t just stop mourning those he lost but instead he indulged on enjoying his darkest thoughts and endless negativity and nihilism; his lips did nothing to brighten up his day, the crow had no other colours but black, but he entertained him nonetheless, with the thought that there was somewhere he could put his angst out on, that in this darkness, he could hide from the world but himself. And he relished to be left with his worst thoughts.

                Daud was thankful for it. Whatever reason behind that permission for this, he wouldn’t ask. He was just thankful. “I am perfectly aware of it. And I have made my choice.”

                His fingers played with the Master Assassin’s hair with such a gentleness that worried him he might grow addicted to it; it was hard to ignore, hard to don’t melt away, and tucking his face against the crook of his neck, feeling soft feathers against his lips, all the way up to the foot of his ear, he let his eyes close and relish on the shared warmth. There was nothing _good_ in this, it was torture; and telling himself that, over and over again, and believing this was the worst choice of all – made him overly content on indulging on it. He would love to punish himself this way, and bring up more havoc, and not only throw himself into the abyss; he would strap some springrazors on himself before jumping.

                Sounded perfect. It was the perfect end. End up ruining another life, and brewing an enemy he couldn’t kill, and making his last days grand – to kiss his skin was poison, and to like to intoxicate himself would be his end. It was perfect. “…Stopping to think, there is something you can do for me.”

                Daud just hummed, to let him know he was listening, as he indulged on just staying by, and breathing out the worries and tension of his body in sighs, endlessly undone like knots of his hair, under the talons of a too slippery raven. Well, if it another person to kill, maybe he could sort it out. If it was to set the Lord Regent of fire, he would be overjoyed to do it.

                If it was to turn around and leave Dunwall forevermore, and forget everything about Delilah and his Whalers, he thought that perhaps he would do exactly that. It was insane, and would break whatever machinery was functioning there instead of a heart, he would torture himself with that but would also know his Whalers would carry on with their lives, and find something better to do. It wouldn’t be a favour for the Witch, but for all of his men instead.

                “Don’t lie to them. They are just like you; bitter and self-sabotaging.” He murmured against the Master Assassin’s hair, and Daud frowned a little but didn’t move away. “Talk to them. Ask what you can do for them. Don’t close your doors anymore.”

 From all things he expected to hear, he sure did not expect such sort of plea. He wasn’t skilled enough to manage his words with them; a knife on a random person was much easier than being honest and transparent with them; it would just prove Billie right once and for all; he was weak, ready to be overthrown.  Perhaps they would all leave like this. Soundless, and without a ruckus or harming one another like the Whalers that left this morning did. The healthiest sort of departure, the one that wouldn’t leave dents on their minds; and the world awaited them out there, for them to start anew. Stopping to think, it was also a perfect way to make sure they got away from him, safe and sound.

                “Alright.” He murmured, and the Witch sighed against his hair; he was sure he was reeking of blood, on the same way the Witch had the familiar scent and taste of rainwater whenever kissing his skin granted him a glimpse of the flavour. Like river water Leviathans, being washed off their salt as they got lost and swam into the Wrenhaven. This was but a lost Leviathan, he managed to catch out of sheer luck, for its infortune.

                Daud couldn’t help but to frown as he made himself a little more comfortable; his double bed seeming perfect now, warm and exquisitely well accompanied. The perfume that would get to the bedsheets were an welcome poison, just as welcome and deadly as the caresses the Witch offered – Timsh must have been such a lucky, lovesick man, and Daud could see why.

                If Delilah was anything like this - impossible and easy to be lured by, easy to desire, easy to hate – then he could see how it was easy to invite such creatures inside one’s home, lead them towards one’s bed. Daud should know better, but he didn’t. He liked him like a rare, smuggled Pandyssian bird; the Master Assassin liked his colour, like his sounds and tricks, liked the _conquest_. Here he was, laid with his greatest human fear and enemy. Here he was, enjoying his closeness and to decorate his bed with his presence. Here he was, letting himself kiss the viper like a joke to himself, to the world and everything he had ever built. It was so unhealthy, and because of it, he adored it.

                He could see himself breaking and crossing the world to maintain this awful, sickening practice, this _heresy._ The Master Assassin would do whatever he could to please the bird that kept poisoning him, rotting him at every touch, distracting him from what truly mattered. He couldn’t, however, think of ever changing this; this was perfect for being toxic.

                Daud couldn’t see himself having it any other way. He deserved it in no other way.

 

* * *

 

 

                 Strangely enough, he spent almost all of the next hour wrapped around his limbs, dwelling on mourning thoughts as he watched dawn approach and paint the walls with its brightness that slowly subdued, and got dull into the next hour, where he eventually was bothered to stand up and get clothes warm enough to replace the presence of the fireplace, the warmth of the thick blankets and the Witch, whom underneath his feathers, was warm to caress.

                He didn’t have anything else to say but to obey. There wasn’t enough fight on him to say otherwise. He didn’t trust himself alone, and the hole where his heart used to be, it just ached; numb and forgotten, and cold at the thought of facing the Whalers. They must be ready to gather and leave, or perhaps would take the moment to just ask him to leave instead. There was nothing out there that they could say that would hurt him more than the relief he would feel of seeing them gone, to handle and care for their own lives and fate.

                He hoped this was what Corvo meant by talking to them, for that was what he planned to see unfold. It would be for the best. There wouldn't be any more Whalers and consequently, no more Knife of Dunwall. He would sit down and calculate a certain amount of money by every year and fraction they have served from all the money they had banked up; and he would let them carry on with their lives. More than enough for them to retire, more than enough to vanish or start up something somewhere. Perhaps he ought to do the same afterwards.

                Let Delilah rot and relish her success in whatever she had planning. Let the Witch enjoy herself so much she would forget him as well, and her mission of getting him out of her way would be more than successful. She didn't even lose a thing by her action that ended up all too well. He had no problems in seeing her jumping in cheers; someone ought to end up happy, and if not his men, maybe her and her coven at least.

                It was a thought almost laughable, if only getting up didn't set him back into the real world and it made him feel terribly cold and pained. His bandaged and sewed up skin felt stiff when moving, a bit painful to stretch his limbs or tense up but nothing new. Sometimes he looked back to Corvo, whom paid no mind to him so to hush the black birds that gathered by; he wondered where he even found the birds, or if that was the other way around. He wondered if they could really understand the Witch when he murmured sweet words and a couple colourful, Serkonan curses at them when instead of leaving, they looked up and mimicked his words however they could.

                It emptied his mind for a moment while he watched. But it didn't last long, before Thomas opened the door of the Chamber carefully; it creaked, and perhaps it was its best quality. It didn't lock anymore, and when the rain was unfair to the wood it tended to get heavy and stuffy and dragged noisily on the floor. This time it didn't even open too much, as the snow inside got in the way. It was cold, yes, but Daud had learnt to manage the cold of the abandoned building. The fireplace warmed his corner very well, and sometimes he brought the space dividers from the room of before to close up his upper corner a little. It would get warmer in those worst winter days and he would get up to a snowy makeshift office.

                It was not yet a day that he wished he had a roof. He hated the cold like he hated Dunwall; a deep hatred into something he got used to, grew up to understand and use to his favour. He adjusted his gloves; he had a clean pair, but he hoped to get a bath before putting on anything clean. The third in command was Thomas, should anything come to happen with Daud or Billie he would inevitably be second in command. But it didn't seem like he got himself excited to it, for nothing had changed on his attire, or in his usual quietness and formality. Daud was thankful for it, just so he could keep up the façade that nothing had happened.

                But it had, something awful had happened and it still hurt so much it made him weak, it was hard to breathe every time he remembered; felt so foreign as if he wasn't responsible over his actions and he would regret even the way he walked by tomorrow. The Whaler walked in, not transversed as the rule dictated, and with his mask under his arm, he spoke up. “Sir, we are ready.”

                Most of his men were from Morley or half Morleyan, with exceptions of course, but mostly following the rule. A result of the war in itself, as Morley still was so bitter about aristocrats reigning over their country, that Gristol and especially Dunwall tried to bring more Morleyan workers and citizens into the city, just for them to be met with intense and frequent hate from the Dunwallers. Still, unwanted children were born, bastards were left on the streets, and more often than not, homeless Morleyans bed homeless Morleyans, crafting exquisitely smart children; with skilful hands, that knew no other life but theft and spoke two languages but belonged nowhere.

                They were many in number, and Daud had a rich collection of these kids amongst his ranks. Forgotten, abandoned, mistreated and with a burning desire to be recognised despite the blood running on their veins; to be known for their skills instead. And if they were good, he accepted them in and they accepted one another; still, they influenced the group intensely due to their numbers. Sometimes there would be glimpses of Morleyan tongue and language here and there, far more difficult than grasping Tyvian or Serkonan. A lot less valued amongst nobles and the aristocracy as well. But their second dialect nonetheless.

                Thomas was amongst one of these children. Remarkably less angry, he was a talented cutthroat that always hesitated and planned before even getting up from bed. Not fear or hesitation in itself, but thoughtfulness. Bloodlust and impulse were things he understood not the meaning of. He would know exactly what the remaining Whalers would do for the funeral rites; Daud however, despite having seen it before, he never quite understood why music had to take part of it.

                Usually they would also make an effort to drink and celebrate the dead man's life, an effort to enjoy his or her victories and that he or she were resting now, and thanks to them and their good hearts, they were making it out to the Void where they would find peace. He had a feeling however, that today they wouldn't be celebrating anything. Following Thomas’ transversal to outside, he followed him to the flooded streets of Rudshore where they had a small raft floating, and prepared the pyre with everything they could scavenge. Pieces of furniture and stuffing, exquisite cloths and their feet were turned away from the Commerce Building  - so their spirits wouldn't wander back, or so he could remember them saying.

                A few were making an extra effort to be there, wounded as they were, supporting one another. Fergus would play today, as he almost always did. The other bag pipe player was laid there at the pyre, bare faced, pale and resting. Under his arm was his favoured, dear pipe. Walter always said if he died he wanted to have his pipe burnt with him and that no, Petro could not have it. It had always been a bickering joke but alas, it was respected anyway. They had been surrounded by their most dear items, some of them had wills; most that didn't, and it was mainly guesswork. Burnt with them what was dear, shared with them what could be saved.

                It was so hard to face the real world, and walk amongst their bodies as if they were sleeping, pale but ready to wake up anytime. There was always a brush to their cheeks and foreheads, so the snow wouldn't dare covering up their faces that they would get to see one last time - the world couldn't steal this from them right now. Daud bid them farewell one by one; how couldn't he.

                There was so much he wished he had told them, and there was so much regret on his heart. His throat was weak to murmur whatever he could find himself ready to hush, in hopes they would get to hear before they were gone, and the Void swallowed them. Perhaps it was silly for trained killers to take their funerals seriously but they did their best; most of them had been here as children, and they had wrapped death with reality and a mysticism beyond the simple adult concept; one of rot and darkness and loss, massive and cruel and realistic. They had their own ways of seeing it; some of them, he could recall, closed the eyes of whom they killed so they could spend asleep that eternity in which they had been frozen.

                Daud would be lying if he said he didn't adopt somethings into his own life. He couldn't care less for strangers but for them, for his men, he murmured good passages and congratulated them for their good work and loyalty. He apologised for not telling them those things while they still lived, he shared upon them his regret, even if silently and for the dead. To think, he thought he had already gotten rid of all the liquid he had in his being by now, but he still had some tears to share. To the Void if he seemed weak. Now they were dead and the Overseers were gone, it didn't make a difference.

                Doused in whale oil, they stepped back and let it be lit up, by the walkway they sit down to watch the way it burned, and how the bag pipe screamed in melancholy that directly by his side, seemed to deafen and deliver his distress more than he thought anything could. Maybe that was why Morleyans were so adamant on playing it at their funerals. At Serkonos, it was different; often was a whole band and every instrument available was played. The fiddle or accordion got the most melancholic moment for itself, before the bands would play and everyone would go home to try and lift their moods.

                They weren't so different, apparently. When Vladko, already drunk, began to distribute the bottles, he had a feeling even Pandyssians would get up to drink after such great losses. It reigned in silence, all too bitter and painful as they helped the wounded back to the infirmary; Daud stayed back to watch the raft float and burn up as he opened his bottle of whatever cheap cider they were having, and shook his tears away to drink a little of it up.

                Corvo had watched it all silently, from the fringes. He had nothing to tell the dead and had made himself unknown. In a moment or another, he had seen him helping the wounded but it hadn't fixated itself in his mind; he was the least of his concerns right now, as he sat down on the wall he was sitting by, his feet by few missing the water underneath, dark and full of hagfish, and he carefully lit up a cigarette and offered it to the Master Assassin, instead of stealing it like he would often do.  Daud allowed him to do it, admittedly, out of fear of irritating the spoiled Witch, and also out of entertainment.

                The Witch lit up one of his own, and he had a drag of it before realising the box he was putting back aside was Daud's - to think, he thought Corvo was growing charitable, it was wonderful to realise somethings hadn't changed at all. Like the snow, that hadn't given them a break for a moment, but the pyre burned high enough to warm them even from a distance.

                He didn't say a word however. It didn't feel like he needed to. Soon he would go back inside, have a bath, a meal, and drink until he felt drowsy enough to mistake himself as asleep. The men would be useless for today and most of tomorrow. The Overseers probably would spend those next couple days forgotten, without water or food as no one would want to even look them in the eye. Leonard had been interrogated already, and he spoke quickly, a lot less resistant than one expected of such a high ranked Overseer. Delilah had talked to the Overseers and given them the plans and financial encouragements for them to agree on doing this raid.

                Leonard spoke of a mythical, surreal plan in which she would end up Empress; Daud hadn't believed a word of it, and understood even less, but it had been transcript anyway. He would go through it with more calmness, only so he could give the men the awareness as why they had been killed and butchered left and right. The losses were so big, now he had around half of the numbers of before; the reduction of the number of Assassins were something he had been debating for a while now, to get less kids and urchins inside the circle so the numbers would decrease; there wasn't too much work after all, Dunwall was dying very quickly before their eyes, and naturally was with less jobs around.

                He had thought of hiring less, not burning a group of them up on a raft, as a groupd of the same number walked off into the city, not even asking for a part of the money besides the bonuses they often had. They just left, and Daud mourned that he wouldn't see them again, wouldn't talk to them again. He could get to hear from them, and if he really wanted to, to hunt them down wouldn't be hard; but it hurt to think those familiar faces weren't dead but also were out of his reach. It was hard to get to terms that they wouldn't talk or even meet anymore.

                It was bitter, much more than the awful cider making him company, as he smoked alongside Corvo in silence.

                There was really nothing to say there. He missed half of his gang already; he missed it so much it hurt his burning eyes. He missed and regretted many things. He wouldn't regret, however, not talking to them about everything that happened; they deserved to know why they had been betrayed.

                Right now however, he just murmured. “If you need a place to stay, you can find yourself a bed-”

                “Already did, thank you.” The Witch spoke and stopping to think, yes indeed, Corvo had found one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to update and put sad tags. Lo and behold, the infamous Hurt & Comfort tag.


	12. Sea of Change.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud assembles the Whalers to talk. Corvo realise finally why the Outsider gave Delilah to Daud pursue, which leads to a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especially special thanks today to Amydyne who is a wonderful person, always gives me feedback on this work and truly, without him/her, I swear there wouldn’t be disposition in me for writing today. 
> 
> May the Outsider favour her/him.
> 
> Warning: From now on, as my classes are come back, I might release chapters less often. I have taken a longer while when they are long, like this one, but you can expect a slower deliverance.

 

**_“Sea of Change.”_ **

_“The storm came. Lives were washed away. Ancient pains resurfaced. Now it is time for a sea of change.”_

**_Tavis Smiley._ **

****

****

                There was an endless appeal to watch Daud working.

                The Witch might not truly understand why the thought of a fancy cutthroat vying for his favour sounded so sweet, but alas he enjoyed it nonetheless.

                Children like Corvo, whom were born and spread sickness all around them, killing their mother during childbirth and surviving it themselves, were potentially accursed. He had been all and every one of these traits as he was delivered on a stormy night, that pushed away the tiles of the simplest buildings of a slum in Karnaca to break the windows close by or splatter on the cobblestones underneath.

                The neighbours lost much and contracted illnesses that night and the week that followed. The stars were not aligned properly – or perhaps too well, and it had been enough to arouse suspicion. It grew rumours that once fully grown, people put on boxes and tucked under their beds, to be remembered when it interested them the most. When he grew of age, around eight, his nightmares made him look ill, he began speaking of things that no one had ever heard neither was ever spoken. His father was a sailor, and left him often with a neighbour, a kind elderly lady that didn’t favour him in her beatings but alas, even when fearful, held him through his night terrors and foreseeing.

                A _seer_ , through the root of the word. Such aptitudes were the inclinations Overseers sought; either to train him in another obedient hound, or to kill him before he was a threat. He didn’t need to be told that to know of his fate. He would hide on balconies and see the narrow roads from above, colourful with peeling paints and curvy like was the Serkonan fashion, where neighbours would gather outside when it was past dusk and sit in chairs to talk about everything and nothing. And whenever it was unspoken his existence, it would be there on his dreams later into the night, in their voice.

                What they hadn’t said would reach his mind from the Void when he slept; at times replaced by a soothing male voice, that took him a while before he could give it a face and a name. It hushed the same things. When confidants whispered, it would return to him in secrets like a crow that heard something it shouldn’t and mimicked the sound until he couldn’t breathe and the whole city heard of it. Seers of this sort, were they women, they would be signed up to study and serve the Oracular Order, and perhaps be Oracles themselves later on.

                The men, however, were pushed unto the Trials of Aptitude and killed before the end as soon it was noticed their talent for foreseeing.

                So when he cried against his father’s side; he whom was a stranger but also where he had put all his hopes and expectations on, and shared all his distress, he got to hear of a plan. Pack what he had, and smuggle him away to be somewhere else – live on the streets of a different place, of somewhere he didn’t know. They were humble, and living in the streets alone wouldn’t be any different than what they currently had. He ought to forget everything, forget his last name and come up with one, and throw himself into this new world on his own.

                He had cried and despaired nonetheless, but not a week later he was on a ship, towards Dunwall. A grey, progressive city harnessing children left and right to work, and as famine was declared on Morley and whoever could refugee themselves on the capital did so, they tried their best to organise the masses. He was there amongst the crowd, hearing much, speaking little and quietly but still enough to catch the attention of a woman that would shape him into what he became.

                Vera Moray had been a gorgeous woman then, yet was already old when she took him in. She found him talking to the birds and the bugs and stealing food before the overgrown urchin she was tutoring caught him. Something on him shone, and she liked him despite most; saw in him the eyes of her favoured groom, and the young delicateness of the Leviathan that haunted the dark emptiness; Corvo had been an starved off child, and Morris Sullivan lacked the brains the decadent noblewoman clearly had despite most.

                The brute was good for chasing off dogs and breaking the bones of cats and tearing them apart to see how they worked from the inside; he had been slow even to learn how to read common tongue, to see the future from guts took even longer. But Corvo, he had danced with her in her play pretend. She was growing everyday more insane and he grew as progressively sharp. Despite most, she was incredibly intelligent and he had so much to learn.

                She taught him the dances of the nobility, the sorts he didn’t have in Serkonos. She taught him the simplest of foreseeing, from guts, bone, to ashes and decks of Nancy. She taught him how to weave thread and before she was blind, she would teach him patterns that he ought to deliver unto large pieces; runes repeated and combined to make the most exquisite patterns like the furs and feathers and beasts she had seen in Pandyssia. He dreamt of knowing them, and he told himself, one day he would.

                And he did. He learnt from her to the very end, all he could drain before her rambles became nearly unintelligible – she was marked by the Outsider but taught him the other way, the way the Pandyssians and people of before did it; weaving like thread from the endless revolving spiral that was the Void; it was his wheel, and from it he would pull and work thread. Working too fast and with what he didn’t know would cause damage, but he had been taught the basic and developed from it. He had a sailor to draw on his skin every new pattern he weaved, and the beasts he dreamt of seeing.

                He left, to forget her madness, and to see more than she could teach. He sailed for long years, and had meet creatures he couldn’t believe, and learnt way above than what she could teach him. He had seen the cultists of all sorts, and had heard their preaching, adding beasts and deities to the Void, or adding no one but the young man that inhabited the emptiness. He got to know the Outsider then, hear from him often but not have his mark. For it would make things _less_ interesting or so he heard; leave the Serkonan to hunt for understanding, he got so far already.

                He crossed the lands and seas wrapped in dances and learning and doing whatever he could to survive the meantime. Knowing the right people, bedding the right women, stealing something here and there, he had managed with few; despite being raised on the standards of the former noblewoman, he had fine tastes but didn’t mind humbleness in the slightest. And he travelled until he went back to Serkonos, perhaps to thank his father for giving him the chance of surviving.

                His father had died fallen prey to a great Leviathan or so that was what he heard. Corvo had never given up his given name and choose to inherit the family name then. Corvo Attano, of Karnaca, had a nice sound to it. He kissed the old woman next door’s hands and sat down with her for a week to tell her of his tales. She was so worried, but so thankful to see he hadn’t died, instead chased and turned what harmed him into a weapon; what made him different now made him special, better. He gave her what his father left behind, little things, close to nothing, and stayed a small while on Serkonos but there wasn’t nearly as much opportunity as Dunwall.

                From the whole world, nothing was as intricate, profane and twisted as Dunwall. It was where he would find his future and his doom, the cards read. He feared naught, and took on a ship one last time.

                All of this taught him many things, but naught as important as how to deal with Assassins. He heard so much, and lived so much. He was taught about the cutthroats whom didn’t gather attention, the real dangerous sort out there; the worst creature, he found out, were the most humane and those were killers. For it sounded so easy for him, to resort to murder when things got hard and cloudy; he lived in fear that if he ever lost the rhythm of the weave, and let the wheel that was the Void get out of hand, what would happen to him and the world around him could be devastating. It would be like what happened to Vera Moray. The Void was a Wheel that never stopped spinning and he forever was bound to keep his hands and mind on its pace; widening the fan and passing lots of threads at the same time, or spinning just one thin thread, it was always spinning and his fingers worked less or more, but they never stopped working.

                Hurrying the wheel or stopping it was impossible, but he did his best at working it without trying to hurry or stopping it. Trying to do either only damaged him, it would get his fingers or hair or limbs stuck in its mechanism, and alas, _it never stopped_. He was burnt and yet guided by it. Servant of that wheel, and able to produce plenty of things in his servitude.

                Just like everyone that was in a bad situation. They were given all the fuel, cold, misery and starvation to be strong, be brave and fierce and stand against the odds. Be slaves or work something incredible. Someone that had to kill was not a killer, but those whom became killers he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive, not that his forgiveness meant anything. He just couldn’t find it in himself to do it, to understand how one took the bloodiest path and the worst choice possible, as if they couldn’t hear and see the consequences everything they did on the world. It was better to be silent, and act here and there when one could. The world would function like that.

                People like Assassins were what made the world so awful, or so he thought. So he found distance between himself and tainted hands that did it for coin and advantage. Lives were threads for him to manoeuvre, and cutting them made them useless as well all the work already there. He had thought he never could work side by side with such a man.

                Then, there was Daud.

                “Is everyone here?” He asked, perhaps a bit lost still with the smaller numbers he had to manage, or perhaps by the ghost of exhaustion and alcohol on his soul.

                Daud was the loveliest exception he could ever find. Working with him was a joy, it was wonderful to argue with him, irk him up, rile him up like hitting the cages of a hound until it foamed in anger and he would love to set it free; there was a joy on opening the cage and seeing it unleashed unto the world, a strength of nature, tearing and chewing everything in its path. Corvo had it down to a passion, almost a sport.

                And despite most, when he opened Daud’s cage, every time instead of putting an end to the Witch, he just tackled but didn’t bite down like he should; he scratched but didn’t tear, and even his snarl was quiet once he opened the cage. He felt obligated to agree with the Outsider every time; it was very, very interesting. He was marked, he shouldn’t be afraid of Witches any more than Overseers usually were. He had the same potential, the wheel spun for him too, even though he worked a lot more differently than Corvo did. The Marked did it differently, and Daud himself was unique like no other.

                For the marked, it was as if their access to the Wheel was limited. They eventually had new threads to work on, and they put it there as many as their fingers managed to work. But instead of clogging up and ruining the piece when they lost control, or the damage Corvo or anyone would take from trying to hurry it up or stop it, instead they would just be taken from the Wheel. It would remain spinning and they wouldn’t lose a thing besides their focus; their connection halted for a moment, before they could connect again to try and work with the Wheel again.

                Moray and Copperspoon clearly learnt how to work many threads at the same time. Vera lost her sight and mind and it was but a thread she couldn’t cut or lift anymore, forced to work with it forever. The same for Delilah, whom had her plants and vines against her surface, they were but a green thread spinning and never ending along her life. He wondered if those threads for the marked they couldn’t lift anymore, or they just didn’t want to step back and lift the threads.

                Daud weaved differently, and it was gorgeous to watch. He lived almost null of it; the Wheel completely forgotten and he would give his back to it fully, as if he could wake up and don’t be reminded of its existence. When he wanted, amongst the fires of chaos he would put a single thread to spin, and would deliver a short spot of colour to the tapestry, like a leaf on a snowy field, and that was it. He wasn’t pulled to the Wheel, he didn’t crave anything more of it, he didn’t care for how much he was capable of doing, and he didn’t care to know. He just, at times, rolled a thread here and there and turned his back to the Void, a will greater than the pull of the endless pit. Looking into the abyss, he didn’t feel the need to jump.

                And his firmness surrounded him. A will of steel that he pushed the world with, and the Void could swallow everything but that flame that was the brightest; he shined in the most intense of heats, and would be the last to be taken. A lighthouse surrounded by waves and submerged at times but never did he budge or stop shining.

                Corvo could understand why he entertained the Outsider so much. He was lured in by the same thing. Seeing his mind closed up to the influences of the Void, never giving in easy temptations and yet an Assassin – a will like this could have changed the world for the best, and yet, did for the worst. It was mournful, if it still wasn’t so beautiful. Like a storm in a flooded area, when it could have been in a desert. He could have done so much, he could do so much somewhere else, doing something different.

                Inside him was a courageous, wild Tyvian wolf; untameable, unstoppable, that heed by laws that no man or bird or Leviathan of this world would ever understand. His secrets were his for Corvo to make assumptions but never truly know; instead, he tangled himself in guesswork and contemplation, lured in by watching and what he did to the Witch – how Daud managed to irk him so much in return was a mystery - why he was so enticing to watch, he would never know. But he was, and it was enough to make him step in and tangle himself in a dance with the beast because waiting and seeing from a distance wasn’t enough.

                Watching wasn’t enough; he wanted to be in the cage with the creature himself and reign terror and irk him up, to feel the bite so he would _understand_. And he was no closer to understanding, but was enjoying everything of this unpredictable path; beyond anything that he could see coming, and beyond what he could see himself engaging on. Daud’s fear and hesitation and _respect_ were intoxicating, and whatever was it that the Master Assassin saw on the Witch enough to maintain an odd alliance, must be as equally enticing.

                No prophecy had predicted it and Corvo adored seeing something he hadn’t ever _seen._

                He hadn’t seen this coming either, but this one he had weaved himself. Watching Daud walk around counting the Whalers on his makeshift, snowy office that was surprisingly warm; he could relish on the silent moment of thoughtfulness and muse on this bet he was making himself.

                Daud wouldn’t talk to the little wolves. That much he knew and that much he could see; they were easier to read than the Master Assassin himself, and he so clearly could see how they needed it. Corvo no longer was watching from afar, now he was part of the deal;  he for once was part of the action and he had picked his allegiances, thus if he wanted everything to work how he wanted, he had to put his hands to work. He now wore on his skin his decision, feathers all but a dark thread that he couldn’t find a way of lifting without cutting it or hurting himself. Cutting the thread wasn’t an option, he couldn’t live without ever taking flight again, suffering this sounded better.

                And part of suffering the consequences and assuming the risks of his devotion to the task was to roll up his sleeves and budge the wolf. Alone, Daud was a power to fear that was sewing an exquisitely chaotic tapestry, but seeing his intention of killing Delilah _without_ knowing what she was even doing, it was interesting like it was worrisome. Daud knew nothing, Daud was as dull as an old bloodhound that couldn’t smell a stag from a strawberry when it came to Witchcraft, and why it even mattered was a secret of that hard head of his.

                He truly knew not how to hunt Witches, he couldn’t even step out of the mayhem of his mind to make the steps forward into what he wanted to do. He clearly wanted to stop killing - took time, but he finally realised it had consequences – but he didn’t know how to _don’t kill._ And it was such a human defect that he had seen in himself once. He wanted to do things, but didn’t know how. His fingers were trained to weave the simple, human threads of wristbow, pistol, hurt, sword, kill. Skills such as subtlety amongst sheep and learning new tricks were not something old dogs knew.

                Corvo was taking it unto himself then, convincing him to be honest with his men about Delilah, and not only giving the Whalers rest about their brothers’ deaths and betrayals but about their leader as well. Speak of the Leviathan, and how he was working with the consequences, and address it all, so they would see Daud was working, and the Master Assassin might not realise it, but he wasn’t weak, far from it. He just wasn’t good at the new things before his face. Like a fish trying to climb a tree.

                So now he counted the wolf pups, and the Whalers all took a place, almost overcrowding the office as he raised a city map that unlike others, was still free of sketches of hits, news and diagrams. Now he was doing the same, drawing the structure that he must do every time the scheme he was planning was big. He was methodical, but Corvo liked watching so much; he liked to see him putting out what was roaming on his mind and that Corvo couldn’t see, unless it was being poured down. It was filled with the new information, with a title above in bold and hurried thick letters. _Delilah_.

                He liked to watch and imagine if this was how his mind worked, in a tangle of information that he connected with colourful wool thread. While he had worked before the Whalers arriving, he had explained red was for ‘terminated’, green was for ‘allied’, yellow for ‘at risk’ or ‘connected’, and blue stood for ‘unknown’. There was so much blue, he couldn’t help but to notice and he received a glare for it, which just made the Witch grin. That too was one reason he liked so much to see Daud working on his panel, methodical like a war general. What an effective strategist he would have been to the Crown.

                As the thirty or so Whalers gathered, hungover, tired and cold, the Witch couldn’t help but to stand on a corner but not too far as he watched. He knew some of them already; Rulfio, apparently the one most engaged on training the young Whalers, had thanked him personally for his efforts. He had helped the physician enough to earn his trust, and mending a young man as he sobbed within his arms caused some sort of unspoken, silent effect amongst them. Whoever stitched one of the youngest recruits and rocked them to sleep must not be a bad person.

                If Corvo was honest, he would have relied on that logic as well, were the places inverted. That was how he got a silent wave from a couple Whalers from the crowd whenever Daud turned around. They were so young. Young and good hearted, on a way he hadn’t hoped to see in men and women that choose to be killers; but that was what he thought. He was growing to accept that perhaps it was not only about the choice, but what they were taught as well. It was a philosophy, an ideal that said the world was cruel and they had to be just as bad.

                It was wrong; they could survive this world being firm but not hard and unable to bend at times. The world wasn’t cruel either, it was full of beautiful and kindness as well, but it had no conscience. It wouldn’t choose what happened to whom, even if it seemed like it did. That parabola of unknown numbers and chances, led and spun by the Void was hard to predict; it choose not what happened, but it knew of consequences, and handed it heavily. Foreseeing was naught but the ability of predicting patterns and reading the signs, and concluding - from experience and that same chaotic randomness – what was likely to happen.

                And they were wrong to think they had to shed blood, and that Whaler had been wrong to cry into his arms as he cursed the world, thinking he might have done something to deserve the death of so many loved ones. He was not to blame, no. Neither had Corvo allowed him to harden up himself to think revenge would sort it out plainly; chasing Billie wasn’t the answer either. Had Daud taken the moment to hold the younger ones close he would have seen the ruckus and chaos breeding amongst them with his own eyes. But he hadn’t, so Corvo intervened.  They ought to at least know the truth.

                “Montgomery, here on front, I don’t want you talking to Pickford while I explain.” Daud said, and sure Corvo was entertained to seeing him try to organise them; they were as witty and hard headed as Daud, but in different flavours and nuances - Corvo could only see his interest on the Master Assassin spread to them as well. Some liked him; others were still scared and wary of him. Meanwhile, some were strongly thankful and attached like a cultist that worshipped the rock his enemy stumbled on. He had only been on the right place, at the right time. But they cared for no such thing.

                It was harmless and heart-warming, and Corvo had been the same once, for an older Witch. He had seen her fall to madness and mourned it up to this day, that he couldn’t return to her and make her proud and with a comfortable life; she lost too much of her mind to care, and his father was gone into a whale’s belly. He had no one to thank for and if he had, he would be just like them; had he been one of these urchins Daud gathered, he would be following him faithfully as well. He had been a pup too, just never a wolf, although this life would have turned him into a bird of prey.

                His attention went back to Daud, as he cleared his throat. He could guess that the cheap cigarettes were taking their toll on him; if he ought to smoke so much, he ought to stop hiding the decent cigars and smoking those instead. Corvo might or might not be waiting for the day he would catch sight of them and get his hands on that box himself. “I will start now. Questions will have their moment.”

                He spoke and the Whalers nodded, a few leaning against his desk as they watched the board, and Corvo ought to at least be silent through it. Silence wasn’t hard for him, even if it clearly was for some of the Whalers. Some had energy despite their hungover states, and they fiddled to hold back from asking questions as Daud began to unravel about the murder of the Empress.

                Jessamine herself ranted about the event to him, even if distantly. About how Daud was unforgiven from his actions, and yet how in his heart lived a different dream. His hands did so much violence, and Corvo could smell the blood, _her_ blood. But he could also smell regret, corroding his steel eyes from the inside, the one that mattered, and the one that the consequences were so wide and unavoidable that he couldn’t ignore or close his doors for. It was on his voice, on the way he would hold cross his arms a bit more stiffly; perhaps waiting for the pointed fingers to accuse him of the murder of their own brothers.

                 He would rant with a distracting little fire of bitterness towards the Outsider, and he would stiffen his hold on a soft brush as he drew lines under the names – clearly a vice of his, to emphasise what he was saying and giving volumes of intensity to what he explained. Firm and dry and emotionless, but also full of his own insight like a scholar’s report on Pandyssia; he expressed awe and bitterness and yet didn’t change the steel plated weight of the facts that unfolded.

                Corvo had sang stories and warped them in endless wonders about sea monsters, pirates and witchcraft; entertainment for a free pint. But nothing as dark and solidly real as it was to see Daud unravel the reality as if it was a distant but real world, as if he could see it developing like an aquarium. One thing was to sing of bloodbathed victories in loud howls or suffering through gritted teeth and whispers; a whole other thing, was to see Daud, a hypernaturalist dwell on and about the world like a game he knew so well. It fit him so well, the tune of his voice and the stories he told; not stories, he reminded himself, but memos instead, a collection of things he knew and heard, summed up on the most important information and oftenly surprising him with bits of background and a seasoning of his will which just made it delectable.

                He indulged on listening, what he enjoyed the most, and Daud was a _skald_ he wouldn’t ever mourn the time lost listening to him. The map of Dunwall turned whiteboard becoming dotted with the pins used to stick papers on, and painted all the way into the map underneath with the irk he used to circle items and underline names. He could almost see the world unfolding through his eyes, delivered by his hand; the mind of an Assassin, trained unto silence but with so much to say, a whole world in an intricate, dark tapestry within his soul that he sometimes let out glimpses of through his words. Just the trained ears could catch it and it was what lured Corvo into listening so avidly.

                He felt so terrible for liking it so much. For liking the tune, liking the thought of every mad killer and odd creature he had ever consorted with, this one was the one he shouldn’t; was everything he told himself he wouldn’t do on his life. But enjoyed it, like he hadn’t enjoyed life in a long while; he was another unruly sea for the Witch to get himself lost on, and by the Void and everything wherein laid, he had an insatiable wanderlust.

                “I don’t know what Delilah’s plan is, but one thing is for certain, it will be great enough to change the lives all across the Isles.” His mind went back to what was being said, and to the features that delivered them. Daud didn’t ever stop frowning, that much the Witch knew, but the undertone of dread in his eyes, or so he thought he could see it, gave Corvo a bitter flavour on top of his mouth.

                Despite all enticing nature and endless fire, he was burning up and inwards. A wolfhound without a goal, almost giving up on his chase for Delilah, for anything in that matter; giving up his life and not for the sake of something bigger. Corvo might not be able to read him all too well, but a crow could smell dread and rot – people thought they could hide behind laughter and smiles something that so easily showed through their eyes. He might not see beyond, but his part hound could smell it. Bitterness and sadness desolated one’s soul, beyond what Corvo could ever hope to mend.

                But alas, he could try. He could at the very least shuffle the cards and show anew, in hopes it would change something. Give the wolf something to chase and burn up to. That would be his role. “She will try to possess the Kaldwin heir and be Empress through the girl.”

                It was a stabbing silence and steel bolt that cut through his heart, Daud’s eyes the most piercing of glances as he looked towards him and Corvo felt his insides searing at the heat of the Master Assassin’s eyes. He almost smiled, foolishly, blindly and overjoyed if not so wary that it would be met with a sword to his throat. That was the fire he was talking about, the fire that needed things to burn up to. And if that weight unto his soul was partially of guilt over the Empress’ death – he would never understand why she mattered – he would be beyond pleased to give him something to chase.

                Sunk slowly to him, in a bout of awareness that he hadn’t understood before. That was why the Outsider spoke of Delilah to Daud - that was why Daud was so blindly eager to chase the Witch into the Void and back. _Guilt._ And the Whale God was overly enjoyed wherever he was to see the Knife of Dunwall hold unto the name and hunt for the meaning. He wouldn’t have realised it if not seeing his reaction, so quick and stiff and _bright_ when he mentioned the little Kaldwin.

                Corvo had been equally breathless for a moment, but quickly continued. May it be his gift as well, to give the wolf something to hunt one last time. So he searched through his pockets, there was many of them after all and still he wouldn’t give up a single one of them. Without them he wouldn’t have gotten himself as many souvenirs from Timsh state and this worthwhile piece of poetry. He carefully unfolded the paper before taking a deep breath.

                “ _When pretty Emily woke one day, she saw the world a different way. Her eyes now looked with a stranger’s guile, her dainty mouth smiled a stranger’s smile; her hands now worked the stranger’s wrath, her feet now walked a stranger’s path. The stranger’s cravings drove her onward, and no one who looked on Emily’s face, ever guessed who ruled in Emily’s place.”_

                With love, from Delilah. He wished he had found the note on his pockets a little earlier, but he had appropriated so many things from the nobleman’s state in his hurry to get out of the reeking place, one that still resided somewhere in his lungs whenever he thought of the place. He hadn’t read all the notes he took, and hadn’t checked everything he had reasonably stole from the state. He could only hope a couple of them were as valuable as Delilah’s painting, which he hadn’t time to look at thoroughly either, but he trusted his senses, and began joining two and two. The painting reeked of magic, and seemed to react to ethereal lights and burnt his sight whenever he looked at it too intensely.

                Just like this poem had a weight to itself, and made his head hurt when he found it on his pockets, on that thankfully hadn’t merged unto his skin and been swallowed into his flesh like his coat and cloak. He carefully took the note and a pin, before putting it on the board as well. “…I only found this on my pockets today, almost the things I found at Timsh’s. It was what I needed to see her pattern. She is a genius.”

                The more he thought, the more his head hurt and the more he was breathless to think of his epiphany. It was so glorious and intricate to watch that he could only but hold his breath and cover his mouth with his palm.

                All Witches must be mad, indeed, but Corvo could not be amazed enough. In more ways than one, he found himself mimicking the Outsider when desiring to be away from action but also at the centre of the events – the black bird on the skies that watched everything but wasn’t essential to the events. And he finally got to draw the line between the paintings and Timsh manipulation and possession, all the way back to Daud whom only got a name from the Outsider. And he bit it, and he chased it just like the Leviathan had hoped, but towards that known, expected end, Daud was delivering it in his own mysterious way.

                It was breathtaking. He could barely breathe at the epiphany and the realisation and how beautifully sick the world was, how that last connection between the Witch and the Assassin, that would have never happened had the Outsider not pointed to Daud the direction, and with that intervention, the world would be changed; it was breathtaking, amazing, genial, all the names and adjectives he could find were not enough to give praise to where it was due. Praise be to the Leviathan, and praise be to Delilah whom could pull off such a talented trick and Corvo was in the game just to find out _how_.

                “Corvo?” He heard, and his eyes went back to the Master Assassin whom looked at him with what seemed like suspicion. Well, he supposed that laying praise to the enemy didn’t sound good at all but he had to be forgiven, if Daud could only but to understand the game he had been put to play. And, unwantedly, Corvo as well. He hoped the Outsider would forgive him for opening Daud’s eyes a little, but without it, he supposed there would be no show anymore.

                His paper into this grand scheme was to light up the fires one last time; open the gate, and unleash the wolf one last round, the last grand conflagration Daud would weave. Corvo was good with wolfhounds and training them, this was his role in this grand, ephemeral however repetitive theatre that the Outsider had to watch through the endless infinity in which time spun and the Void swallowed and spat. He could have not been here, his part was mostly unimportant, he was sure.

                But since he was here, he ought to play it, and see it unfold to the end he hoped, the best ending he could find. The Witch grinned, unable to hold it back which seemed wrong for the whole situation but it wasn’t - he wasn’t wrong for being amazed, they just didn’t know enough.

                “I’m sorry. Momentary epiphany.” He said before taking in a deep breath to regain his composure as he spoke. “But I’m sure that is her objective. She must be painting as we speak, capturing Emily’s soul in a canvas and she must have been studying her craft for _eons_ , just so she could now possess the young Kaldwin and live in her flesh.”

                How long she must have studied? How many paintings she must have failed? Corvo sewed, he didn’t paint, but he could see the same being delivered as he thought of it; he sewed animal skins, feathers and blood, he bathed the fabric on bird baths, or put the wolfhounds to sleep tucked against their brethren’s skins. He put it to dry where they soaked up sun on the coldest of days, and he sat down to understand them; their hunger, their needs, their sentiments and reactions and studying them he became what he sewed, and wore it to be one of them, or be in their minds.

                Delilah was crafting the same, but in people, and for long term enough to erase their wills and spirits forevermore. As secure and stable as those given the mark from the Outsider, she feared naught having the influences of the little Empress in her mind, fighting its way back towards Delilah’s soul. She was finding a way to subdue the little girl to nothing with no issues. No thorns or feathers or a young girl fighting her for control – she would give the girl’s spirit to the Void to consume or trap without resistance.

                How she could do so was a mystery, but it was amazing all the same, he was amazed. Delilah must have developed her craft so much, that she might as well succeed in such a pretentious plan. Corvo would have done the same, he could find it in himself to do the same; a world like he idealised, with his dark blue banners and no more unnecessary deaths; no more urchins being harnessed from their homes or the street under ideals they were too small to understand, be it the Abbey or gangs, he would see it _no more_.

                “Corvo?” No more starvation, no more hunting Leviathans and unbalancing the cosmos; the great beasts that warded the Void away would be left alone how they must. No more misery and the recognition talented, touched children _deserved._ His Empire would have been _perfect._ He could understand Delilah now, and she was the ambition when he had been hesitation. She was talent when he had been discretion.

                “She is...” Delilah was _right._ He felt light headed on the same he wanted to howl to the skies in exhilaration. In comparison to her plans, Daud was selfish, trying to sacrifice a better world so to get rid of his own guilt, trying to ward off the ghost of his mistakes. The Witch couldn’t help but to step back, wide eyed on his realisation. A murderer’s guilt or a potentially better place, with a Witch on power whom had seen misery and pain and had only reached out to mistreat only the rich and cruel; and a little girl would be sacrificed, but how many of those didn’t die on the streets every day?

                 Sounded wrong to his ideals, still. Possessing a young girl sounded wrong despite most, and using of magic to mistreat normal people was tempting, but he had never liked the thought of doing so. If he could avoid it, he would; was unfair to cross swords with someone when at any time a swarm of rats could be called forth to trample his enemies down and devour them as they stood and bellowed. It was never fair. To possess a young girl sounded wrong and morbid if not so thoroughly fascinating, and he wasn’t sure what to even feel about it.

                Had also been against his ideals to work with Assassins, but here he was. In the end, Delilah still was no different from the Knife of Dunwall herself. She was reaping how she could, pushed by the world to do this. Her path was not the bloodiest, but the most unfair; her unfair life made her unfair herself, like a bloody world made bloody children. They were handing the world what they had been gifted and both were wrong.

                But Daud… He had tried to step out of it, Corvo saw it. Enough of spreading blood and chaos so it wouldn’t breed more children like him and his men. Putting an end to the never-ending cycle, towards new endings, new stories, new Empires, truly unpredictable unlike Delilah, whom acted accordingly like anyone would have. That was the fun of following Daud and giving him the name. Seeing who was stronger, the fires of hate, or the seas of change.

                “Corvo?”

                His head hurt so much that closing his eyes wasn't enough, digging his nails in his scalp wasn't enough. It hurt and the world spun for a moment as he blinked his black eyes quickly, feeling them fill with water that was caught on his eyelashes, for a brief moment. It was such an intense train of thought, which he hadn't been able to counter and hold; he never had been able to stop his very loud and energetic mind.

                He must have dug into his head enough to pierce skin, and eventually the bone, for in a brief moment, it was as if he sunk too much in the water, but surfaced as quickly as he sunk. Suddenly, the pressure was gone from his ears, gone from his mind, caught in a sudden fever that suddenly subdued, leaving just confusion on its wake. Opening his eyes slowly, he let out those tears his dark eyes created, and felt them slowly caress the corner of his eyes, sliding slowly towards his forehead, and then dropping towards the sky.

                The office had turned eerie, cold, caught in the Void in a halting moment of emptiness in which he watched the forgotten surroundings. No more Whalers crowding the desk, now books and notes slowly floated idly, caught as if underwater, spiralling slowly. The snowflakes that had been falling were held as well, making a faint mist on the part of the office where it snowed. The lights were gone, silenced and casting the room in shadows that felt a little too cold, but still, the Witch felt bright enough to warm the whole abandoned room.

                _“Very smart. I couldn't be any more satisfied.”_

                Corvo turned around quickly, but even that felt sloppy and slow in this makeshift mockery of the reality, that would someday be one with the Void, but it currently wasn't, _not yet._ To the Leviathan’s words, and the unexpected however known figure, the Witch couldn't help but to sigh in response.

                He had guessed that it must have interested the Leviathan indeed, this whole game of chase, marked against marked, ghosts and ambitions now wrapped exquisitely. It was deep, complex, but Corvo hadn't expected this. Nothing so deep, nothing so thoroughly embedded on the reality of this awful world. He hadn't thought he would find saviours in killers, neither an oppressor in the oppressed, not like he was finding here. It was enlightening and amazing on the same way it was terrifying to watch; for him that was growing to _care_ , it was unnerving to see how easily the balance tipped left and right, and how he couldn't choose where he stood.

                _“I hope you can understand why I brought you here.”_ At first, no, Corvo couldn't. But taking a deep breath and rubbing his hands against his wet eyes, he looked back up to the Leviathan.

                There was no reason to stop him from saying what he was going to say, to make choices he might have done for impulse unless the Outsider cared too. And he didn't. Sometimes it was easy to elude himself into thinking the Leviathan cared for the outcomes but he truly did not bother, even if it comforted to think so. Still, here he was, halted in the Void by interference of the Whale God as he looked at his surroundings then the young man. “Because I am about to make a decision?”

                The Whale God nodded, leaning closer to gently move his cold hand and brush it against the Witch's cheek. Some knew the Outsider's touch, and Corvo was amongst those people. He would take Vera in his arms and dance with her, her madness locking her forever in the moment in which she was waiting to dance with him again, and only the Outsider could alleviate her endless wait. The Outsider would cover Piero’s hands with his own and lead him to crafts his mind would never deliver on his own, whispering against the foot of his ear about the physics and metaphysics of this mysterious world they lived and couldn't ever dream of understanding fully.

                To Corvo, he was the gentle touches at times that he sought on the waves, and the caring caresses he could only dream he once received; near motherly or brotherly, if not so cold. It only served as a chilly reminder of things no Witchcraft would ever give him; neither he wanted to break the rules of the world by trying. His heart just lusted for it, incessantly pained, searching for the comfort of home and family and recognition. The Whalers had found it amongst themselves, so had Daud, he could see that. But he would never find it for himself.

                _“Indeed. And like I told Daud, what you will choose is not a mystery to you alone, but I also don't know and cannot predict. And it will be entertaining either way.”_ He said quietly, thumbs tracing underneath his eyes as the Leviathan looked down at him but Corvo couldn't ever meet his gaze. Truly, it was a mystery for Corvo, just like it was for the Whale deity, a mix of righteousness and ideal and the longings of his heart. Both choices felt wrong, very wrong. But also right, in their own way.

                _“What do you truly want, Corvo? You have seen Delilah and you two are so similar, only one difference stands between you two in potential. She carries my mark, while you converse with the Void in your own manner.”_ He murmured, quiet and taking up all of his sight, almost an embrace that from so much saltwater coldness, he almost felt warm. _“By her side or in her place, you will have the means to steal her place and live in the Empress’ body. If you can do that, with a coven and so much power, getting to the Crown will be the easiest part of the plan. Would you be able to create an even better world, better than Delilah’s? Better than anyone's?”_

                Corvo looked up at him as his throat closed in certainty. His world would be perfect. Much better than anything Delilah would come up with, for she seemed too bold and thirsty to the power instead of the wise ones that awaited and watched. Those people from afar that made good leaders, those that could see would make good Emperors. Could have been him. He could have made it, in blue banners and black vests, it could be him. Jessamine would be proud of the world he would create. Fair, distant and kind. “Yes. And it would be perfect.”

                _“You sound so sure, I cannot help but to believe in you and be curious to see it. But will that be the path you will walk?”_ He asked him, calm and quiet as the Void itself. And in a glimpse, he vanished as well his saltwater touch did.

                They weren't done, he knew, and he looked around for the Whale deity, but instead found the snowy path of the office fully altered. The Chamber of Commerce was only half Chamber, as where it began to snow was replaced by the other half of another room.

                It was but a pale staircase, with exquisite carpet leading upwards in a dark blue hue, intense and mysterious, but not in the purple hue of the Void. It was a lot more solid, and oddly familiar. Above the few stairs, as he slowly made his way them, was a solitary, simple and cushioned white throne. Corvo had never seen the Empress’ throne room but he knew it was hers, the throne room of the Empire of the Isles was simple and exquisite in its elegant sobriety. It never hid the heavy burden it was to rule, but also didn't erase the finesse in such a role. Greater than the everyman’s dreams, greater than many high born people, greater than Delilah or Emily.

                Corvo himself felt small before it. A little girl would need help to climb it, but for him, taking the seat was strangely easy. Well fitted. He had been taught the arts of the noble and the humble; he had seen both worlds and he was not insane like the city seemed to turn people into. He could be powerful someday, just like Delilah, without losing his tracks in his ambition like she had. He would have been great. At the armrest was perched a black bird that he gently traced with his talons - it was warm to touch, it was too real; his dreams and ambitions were real too, even if he cast them aside all this time for the sake of trying to be the better person in a bad world.

                One girl truly wouldn't matter. But alas, the world still wouldn't change if the likes of Delilah and Corvo had what they wanted the most. _“Is this your desire? Or do you see more, and see further?”_

                The Leviathan murmured, walking from behind the throne, surrounded by his shadows, his hands behind his back like he often did when he was thinking, himself.  The Leviathan could see much more than Corvo, the Witch was absolutely nothing in comparison, but even so, not all was unveiled for the Outsider, truly reigning solely at the Void. He looked at the Witch and cast him a small, emotionless smile that for him, still managed to feel sweet to receive.

                _“You do see beyond, but seeing is often your burden. You don't follow what you long for, you don't make plans. You just let your heart decide and live one day after the other, boundless as if there was no tomorrow. That is so dull, and is your ruin.”_ He mused and it sure did hit where it hurt the most. But it was also true. A choice here and there and he followed the random desires of his cursed heart, going to where the world pushed him as he just sometimes angled his course to how he wanted. Nothing like clawing and swimming against the flow, nothing like the world often experienced: a loved one dying, hands painted red with murder, and mountains of adversities to be climbed.

                He ended up just climbing and surviving what he was given, watching from afar the world of others while keeping his own world a secret, hidden, at times with bouts of entertainment so to be faintly satisfied. His desire for recognition and a place to bury his wanderlust once and for all; that he didn’t have. He never would have it, and he was fine with it. Or at least he told himself that. _“You see unusually much, enough I dare say, that we can be similar at moments. But we are not the same, and you cannot behave as I do, even if you wish to.”_

                A lecture wasn't on the list of what he expected and he could find his heart tightening further as he crossed his arms, comfortably seated at the throne but uncomfortable on his own skin. He saw much but he couldn't be neutral forever, he knew that. He couldn't be away forever; he was part of what was happening here. He was at the centre of it and this time he couldn't fly away. Looking at the throne, and how much his heart earned to achieve something this grand, he could only but to close his eyes tightly as he shook his head. “I am not Delilah. I couldn't take her place.”

                Not her place, and not her actions either. The world was waiting out there for him, waiting for him to make a choice. He wouldn't change the world; he knew that stopping her wouldn't change a thing. The world would remain rotten, and people like _them_ would never have justice, and people like Emily would continue to suffer, and people like Daud would still murder and regret it. It wouldn't change at all for himself changing wasn't enough, but having the power to change everything was right there, waiting for Delilah to grasp it.

                Delilah was wrong for doing it, but perhaps the world would do better. The best people on the world were silenced and invisible exactly because they didn't reach out take actions. Corvo should just let her, or perhaps do it himself. Good intentions did nothing on this world, and good actions did as good as not exist. There wasn't a world out there eager to be redeemed. That was the wise choice, the smart choice, and the one that still felt like it was worth nothing.

                _“If your inability to take her place is what weights your choice, then allow me to even it out.”_ The Outsider stole from him the attention as he walked before the throne and oddly enough, moved to carefully kneel down, without touching the floor but the gesture still clear. His cold fingers gently took Corvo's hand to his lips, as he put a quiet, tasteless kiss to the back of his hand.

                He jumped, wide eyes but not daring to move as it burned through the back of his palm, unto his bones all the way into his soul as he hissed but he didn't stop his fingers from curling tightly before it subdued into numbness. When the Leviathan let go on his hand, it shone blue and green no more and when it fainted down, becoming normal, many things followed suit. The burning mark became just dark ink, and slowly his talons became dark nails, not exactly sharp or overgrown but just how he liked to keep them. Long and black, side effect from many runes crafted, chemicals and details.

                Watching feathers wrinkle and disappear unto his skin, becoming an overcoat again, all the while his vision funnelled to human sight again, it was a relief in itself. He carefully moved to rub a thumb over the new tattoo on the back of his hand, rubbing the aching, numb heat there as the Leviathan slowly got up. _“This is no great news for you; you have seen and studied how the marked work. This is but a privilege and ease you fared well without, but I will give it to you so it may give you more freedom of choice. I am sure I will be rewarded greatly by the events that will come.”_

                He had seen everything but this gift coming to him now. Still, he was also not surprised. The Outsider wasn't wrong to say that the mark was not a mystery but an ease instead, a safety net for him to fall on instead of letting small things leave dents on him. It would amplify and make easier much that he already knew and did, and he was thankful, on the same way he feared it. Now he might indeed be able to face Delilah in the same ground, same specialties. Now, he might even be able to replace her, if he so wished. There was so much more weight now over his shoulders, and he mindlessly tucked his hands against his chest so to keep them away from further harm.

                _“You and Delilah are so similar, but also very different. She calls this ability ‘Painted Flesh’, which surface her skin with colour and thorns that serve both as weapon as defence. It might be the only new thing for you.”_ He said, as he put his hand to rest on Corvo's shoulder and stood at his side, like a councillor by an Emperor's side; or, more like it, the ever so frequently visiting spirit of the Void.

                Corvo was no closer of knowing what to do, and no less pained by the thought of killing either desire of his. To remain neutral was impossible, to reign guiltlessly was impossible, and nothing was truly how he was used to handling. This gift truly made choosing much, much worse.

                _“Now the choice is yours. The world is pushing you no more. Decide, Corvo. I will be watching with interest.”_

                The ‘thank you’ was caught on his throat, and felt untrue. He had a feeling there was nothing for him to be truly thankful for, as the Outsider just made everything more difficult, very much so.

                Feeling the pressure increasing on his chest, ears and skull, and knowing exactly what it meant, now he offered no resistance. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the cushioned back rest of the throne, _his_ _throne_ , and simply let it wash over his senses. He let it wash through his mind, wash over his thoughts and this time, the Void left him gently, nothing quite like how it had stolen him from awareness.

                This truly helped him with nothing. But still was a gift. He could choose whatever his heart earned to grasp. Nothing, or an Empire.

 

* * *

 

                The first thing that slowly wormed its way to his mind were the scent, like it would wake wolfhounds from their deepest slumber.

                It was familiar, but also so distant, intense like routine but faint like if second-handed. Something musky and dark like aged fragrances, that spent years in the back of a shelf and after such a long while it concentrated and the strongest trait survived, and stood over the ghosts of others. Woodland and deep and rare, but forgotten as if it was something that wouldn’t be used often but still it lingered on skin.

                Agarwood, his mind supplied. Brought in saplings from Pandyssia and infected with mould, so the wood would react to the infection and produce a dark resin with the most intoxicating of fragrances. Before noblemen found it, it used to be common on slavers’ and smuggler’s ports, the fragrance in which they would cover the scent of saltwater, blood and rot now fixated to their ships as they sold the Pandyssian wood as a smuggling bonus. It was also wonderful to handling funguses and mild infections, as well a decent analgesic, and Corvo believed he had some of it in a jar, somewhere under his bed.

                Above, however, seemed odd to find the scent. He frowned a little on his sleep and turned his head – an awful idea from how much it hurt. But almost like a comfort, the bedsheets underneath his cheek were of the softest caresses. But agarwood shouldn’t be on his bed unless he had been wounded and by the Void, he might be.

                That made him sit up quickly, just to wince at the dizziness it brought and the pounding on his head, his eyes burning all the way back into his skull from the brightness. He couldn’t regret it enough, but more importantly than the thick, deep and alluring scent of agarwood, was what had happened, and he looked around quickly.

                There was no throne room anymore, and neither were talons that he was gripping his hair with. His range of vision was reduced, and as an instinct he warped his overcoat tighter around himself; but he wasn’t cold, neither undressed, just feeling exposed. The back of his left hand flared up like a flame on its own, glowing like whale oil ignited as from it raised its ethereal, bright blue and whitish smoke and he turned to the matching glow on the opposite side of the room.

                The bearer of an orange, reddish mark lit up the dark with his as well; burning brightly and quiet on the back of his hand as he looked at Corvo with eyes that reflected the light – one orange, the other seemingly blue, almost like a street cat Daud watched him and made him shiver with the gravelly noise that was his voice. It was both too loud to his hurting senses, and too intensely deep to his sensitive hearing. _Just like the scent of agarwood._

                “Are you done?” He asked, and the Witch couldn’t help but to sigh as he lowered his hand, but alas it didn’t stop glowing at all; the warmth it provided was a sweet comfort, but also flooded his being with invading sensations. Almost as if Delilah was around, but still, different. It wasn’t her, but another being instead, that in its silence it communicated. Of burnt wood, fire, steel and blood, that belonged everywhere on the world and yet, nowhere. As universal as hearths, and unbelonging as a forever migrating Leviathan; migrating and crossing the world with its herd – or, Corvo dared to say it; its family.

                “…Yes?” His own voice sounded awful, and sweat stuck to the back of his neck, that now felt cold when he sat down. The world spiralled too much around him, and he found in himself the desire to slowly lay down again, his eyes closing tightly for a moment as he raised his hand to look at the glowing backside with the familiar mark. So painful it was to see that bright light, but also, as comforting as it was worrisome.

                It hadn’t been just a dream, even if he wished it had been all left behind him. Came back to him quickly, the thoughts of desolated halls and his throne room and insecurity, and _unknowing._ Corvo hated to don’t know what to do, hated to have something that he couldn’t predict or foresee, such were the paths before him, crossed quizzically and without giving signs. That must be something other people, people of importance, were used to having. Not him. He was a bird far too small for what was before him, with dreams as big as the decisions before his eyes.

                “She is not wrong.” His throat hurt to murmur, as he watched the back of his hand. He didn’t need to turn his head to see Daud get up, move his chair to close of the bed so he could hear. It was not out of concern, or anything for that matter; he couldn’t care less for the doubts that crossed the Witch’s mind like Corvo cared for his. Corvo liked to listen and watch; Daud was a man of action.

                And from everything he would murmur, he would filter what suited him best, and he would take notes into his mind before the wolf was gone, off and prowling. Corvo knew that, all too well. If he wanted honest opinions, doused with something similar to _care_ he would be at the Pub right now, kneeled on the floor before Callista so he could put his head on her lap and cry his hate for pit fights so much. And she would be caring, even if it was all surrounded by a firm iron fist, as she would tell him to get up, wash his face and work twice as hard so when Cecelia bought the pub someday, he would have an use there that wasn’t the pit fights, and they could put an end to them once and for all.

                Still, his heart might be earning but Corvo wasn’t searching for comfort. He needed hands that did not hesitate, like Delilah’s would have been, restless and full of ability to weave the will against the world instead of just watching it. “If you… If you could take anyone’s place in the world, be them, would you?”

                Daud watched him with eyes that seemed to be waiting for the rat swarm to notice him on his quiet corner; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, like a child waiting for the hound to follow its scent and find him where he stood. And Daud might fear, but he did not utter a sound. He was like Corvo, and like Delilah. The world pushed too much and he would push back on the same strength. Whenever the hound found him, he would hit first, with a silent sword to the beast’s head, and a rush to put the sword on the Overseer’s ribcage. Whenever Corvo bolted to whatever direction, Daud would chase with vengeance.

                He had lost so much to Delilah, the embodiment of his fate. He would not give her another ally or would risk a Witch – treacherous creatures, all of them – being so powerful as to wipe him off and come back biting. To whatever side he ran, Daud would be there to hit first. Pushing the world before it pushed him. And like this, the oppressed became oppressors, and the urchins became killers. Corvo feared naught, neither had he felt like he could run either way without hitting first.

                It was the hound that cornered the urchin, or was the urchin that cornered the hound? It was a pit, and they would both be aggressors and oppressors. And when they died, others would take their place, and the pit would never ever be clean. Still, Corvo feared not.

                “Maybe the Lord Regent.” He said after a brief while, looking down at Corvo with those unreadable eyes like steel from the Void; the wheel spun, and the world would change, but the silver platted weapon would be held in the Void forever; watching nothing, and instead he would be waiting for when he would get to move again. Forever waiting to move and chase, and every second was an eternity itself there on the weapon’s eyes. “So I could put the Kaldwin back on the throne and a bolt between my eyes.”

                Corvo would be Emperor. The Lord Regent and the Kaldwins would be the last thing on his mind, and he would be the very wise ruler of all the Isles; he would put down the whaling and instead invest on the lightning harnessed from the skies. He would put the Abbey where it belonged; on the weekends for those willing to attend the sermons the people needed in hard moments and instead had it breaking through the front doors, spreading more harm than comfort. He would make his own coven, personal and secret as he would be his own Royal Spymaster, and because of it, nothing would be hidden from his eyes.

                Ever seeing, ever knowing. But something still tasted wrong. Was this his own dreams, or Delilah’s? He couldn’t tell to be honest. It was something he saw and because of envy, he wanted. But did he truly earn for the formal work of an Emperor? He wasn’t sure. If he ever thought of a wish that if he could, he would love to see fulfilled, many other things came to mind. The Empire was not one of them; instead a tower he grew on the shadows of came to mind.

                “I could have been an Emperor. It would have been beautiful, the Empire would have been wonderful, far beyond anything Delilah could have conjured.” He murmured, covering his eyes with his wrist as he took in a deep but slow breath. He still could feel silvery eyes digging through his arm, but he did not bother returning it. Instead, he gave a small, broken chuckle as he shook his head. “…Would you like to be an Emperor? Daud; Knife and Emperor.”

                “Void, no.” He heard, and he got to raise his arm a little so he could look at the frown of the Master Assassin. Alas, he was caught off guard. He was sure that the world had pushed the man enough that he felt a million things could be changed, better than anyone else, he knew exactly why and how things had to be changed. An Empire at Daud’s hands would have been grand, he knew it. Red banners but full of health; loyalty, fire and blood, thicker than any wine, oil and waters. Fiery to tackle all issues where they were rooted, catch covens by their leader. Laced in thick actions and forever responsive to what all Emperors before had hesitated to act on.

                It was a rule he would like to see coming. Not as balanced and serene like his own rule. But alas, would be an Empire of the people, from the urchins cornered on the streets and the seamstresses hurt and dismembered by their wheels, of Witches like Corvo, who watched and were unwilling to hurt and had much to say. Daud would have made a fine Emperor, he mused; but it was something he could only wonder about, as the red-clad Emperor in question just listened out of a bout of patience he was sure the man didn’t have often. What a privilege to be _heard._ “Far from me all the paperwork and corrupt nobles. I have seen enough of it for a lifetime, and have no reason for doing that again.”

                “But the people, Daud. You would have the power to change everything.” He murmured, looking up at the Master Assassin, whom for a moment seemed to grin, or was it a trick of the angle as he shook his head slowly. A trick of the angle, however, wouldn’t have shown him a blurry glimpse of teeth like a wolf in the dark. He watched for a moment, a bit lost as he heard the Knife sigh.

                “I have had this rush of power once, and achieved nothing good with it. A second time perhaps would be different, but I don’t think so.” He said, and his fingers tapped his knees mindlessly, restlessly. The fingers tapping like the hounds when crated too long, waiting for the heat of the sun or the cold of the night to hit its fur, so it could throw unto the world everything it had piled up at its heart. Not an angry beast, like one might think so; it was merely its nature to hunt and kill until it died. “I can’t change myself, even less the Empire. It would be just how it is. Exactly how it is, if not worse.”

                Wasn’t it but the base of everything? Everyone thinking hate would breed something different of hate, misery would make something besides more misery, when it clearly didn’t? But Outsider’s eyes, wasn’t it hard to forgive, to just put aside hate and hurt and hug a killer. Consequences shouldn’t ever be vengeance, but whom would be the mastermind to sort out the difference? Daud clearly signed himself out of it, too deep into delivering vengeance on this dark world, Delilah no different, acting as she was. Would Corvo see out of vengeance and come up with consequences instead?

                He had a feeling that no, he didn’t. And if he truly wanted a better world, it wouldn’t come from an Emperor like him. He had a lot to change on himself first; he had a lot of revenge to erase from his heart. Feelings he harboured close and left to brew, he wasn’t immune to that sentiment either, and if he wanted to change the world, perhaps he ought to change his own mind first.

                Like Daud, he thought. Daud whom found regret too late in life, but truly, it was never too late. Never too late to rethink it, to change himself and nothing would change for the world, but he could be comforted a little bit that he went through the change, a last turn that was right and it might be what gave his spirit rest when the Void took him too. Not to evade consequences, for those were unavoidable, but perhaps to bring up something new, something akin to hope to the end of the life of a matchstick, he wouldn’t just burn out. Somewhere he might hope for more, instead of expecting it.

                “That is why he marked you? So you can fight with Delilah for the throne?” He asked, gathering the Witch’ attention once more towards the mark on the back of his hand that never stopped glowing; just like the Master Assassin’s. “Yes.”

 Whatever he was hoping to the end, Corvo hoped he would find it. Perhaps Corvo would find what his heart longed for too, whatever that his wanderlust wouldn’t ruin. Perhaps he would find something to anchor him from the stormy clouds, a deity to harness his thunder and hail, like _Shango_ and his serpents, and he wouldn’t be wandering any more.

                There was none. No family to anchor him, no plans, no desires but a lust to discover and fly until he was beyond exhausted, spreading storms and lightning. It almost was enough to silence everything else, and while it lasted, it sure was enough for him to forget and replace the Void in his heart with thunder and boundless chaos. Whenever this ended, he would raise and sail off again with everything but a suitcase and skins. Perhaps he would lose himself crazy and mad in Pandyssia, would serve him well. Felt like a more honest desire than being Emperor, even if he grew to lust for it out of envy.

                “Will you?” His eyes didn’t leave the mark on the back of his hand, and for a moment, Corvo found himself tempted, but not anymore. He could begin working and weaving his own lonesome path towards the throne and see if this filled anything on his heart. But alas, he knew it wouldn’t.

                Lowering his hand against his heart, just so he could rest it from keeping it up for so long, he looked at Daud and shook his head. “No. You will. And the little Kaldwin will be throneless still, but untouched.”

                Corvo wasn’t the change that was going to fall on the world; it was Emily’s paper on the tapestry. To fail or to succeed, it was her role and it couldn’t be replaced, neither should be. She had the right to at least try, all the odds would be her to attempt, even if they didn’t exactly favour her, she was the heir, and wherever she was, she was a child robbed of her innocence. If she would put on a mad hunt after anyone with a slimmer of corruption and relation to her mother’s murder, if she would put on a mad hunt after Daud, it was her role to do so. To be the change, or don’t be the change.

                Still, he looked up to Daud who might have believed him or might not; Corvo couldn’t tell if he was honest. Silver eyes remained a mystery; the machinery within his eyes was a secret from everything including the Void, but still was very enthralling to see working.  The Witch carefully sighed, moving to rise up on his elbows, a little drowsy and light headed from the Outsider’s sudden interference, but it would pass, soon enough.

                But he could spare a hand to tug the Master Assassin closer, just so he could kiss him. Nothing like comfort or care or anything, but fear and admiration. Daud feared, and to a degree so did Corvo, but it also was doused in admiration like men had for beasts, or for lightning and thunder whenever it set up conflagrations and wreckage and weaved beautiful or awful things.

                Admiration. He had a lot of it to press against the Master Assassin’s lips, who just let out a small grunt that from anyone else might have sounded like annoyance. On him, it was something completely mysterious that Corvo didn’t exactly care to sort out. He just liked the sound of it, and grinned in return.

                Parting from his lips, he looked into his eyes and breathed out. “You are a beautiful sea of change. I hope you know that.”

                It didn’t make his eyes widen neither it made the wolf curious. What an exquisite and complex creature he was. Instead he moved his hands to push his elbows off the bed, so the Witch fell to his back again and the Master Assassin got up with a shake of his head, walking towards the staircase and leaving behind just an order.

                “Go the fuck back to sleep, you are sleep talking.”

                Corvo just chuckled a little bit, but complained not as he warped the agarwood-scented blanket around himself and curled up further on the spacious bed. Daud was weaving the change first on himself, and that was what made him so interesting to begin with.

                He indeed was a refreshing, otherworldly, _beautiful_ sea of change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please give me a comment, will you?
> 
> Agarwood is a real wood, very rare nowadays and was used as medication and perfumed the ports of Hong Kong, that was baptised after this wood. Similar to Brazil, which is the name of the tree bark that was exported from *here* to the rest of the world mainly because it was a cool red wood and a great dye.
> 
> Warning: From now on, as my classes are come back, I might release chapters less often. I have taken a longer while when they are long, like this one, but you can expect a slower deliverance.


	13. What We Need The Most.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud's POV. Daud eavesdrop on Corvo entertaining his Whalers with storytelling. Filler chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long, my friend. I cannot put to words how sorry I am for taking a whole week to write this, but I will be honest. It was a difficult chapter and fillers entertain me not. It seems like I am ripping a piece of me at every comma. I hope this isn't too bad for you to read, as it was for me to write. 
> 
> I promise to entertain more often, make it shorter next time and more dynamic. You have earned it.

**_“What We Need The Most.”_ **

_“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”  
― _ [ **_Philip Pullman_ ** ](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3618.Philip_Pullman)

                He had all the reasons on the world to mistrust all Witches and put a sword where it was due; no non-lethal means could steal one of its magic, and even death was dubious to be its end.

                His fingers had sought for a sword, his eyes had reflected nothing. For once, this death wouldn’t haunt him. _It was for their safety_ – he would tell himself, and like all the Overseers that he had killed and wouldn’t mourn, this well-earned kill would be bold, however, the safest measure. The Knife of Dunwall earned for it.

                But he looked, he listened, he hesitated, for once. He listened the puppeteer weave his art. And it broke his heart to realise he was weak and had been won, in his own halls, in his own will.

                Billie was right, he was weak, she just didn’t realise in which way.

                When Corvo had stumbled, shivering cold and growing less conscious by the minute, it was nothing otherworldly for him or the Whalers anymore. Back in his most interesting days, where buying supplies were always turned into a mission and delivered it as fervently, for the Outsider to request his attention and steal his spirit from the world like this was common. The oldest Whalers could recall that, and Rulfio had jumped forward before anyone else.

                Daud saw it coming long before, and had kept the Witch from breaking anything, from the furniture to its bones as he landed on his arms instead. The silent astonishment had been shocking, but Thomas had broken his oath of eternal silence while Daud explained so to deliver the truth behind the sudden thing himself.

                He explained it only half-heartedly then, with fewer distractions for his eyes, but more distractions on his mind. The Kaldwin women were a very sore subject to tread on, not only because Daud would wince every time the memory flashed up on his mind with its endless weight, but also due to the fact everyone stepped on eggs around it, wincing up and tensing and fearing much more than himself whenever Empresses and their daughter came up.

                The Knife of Dunwall would rather have it screamed at his face, he would rather have all fingers pointed at him and all stones thrown regardless of who was guilty and who wasn’t; nobody was more tainted by the situation of the current world than himself. He was desperate to find vengeance and justice to come hit him at once, fiercely, strong, hard, and put everything to an end. He could face whatever end there was and he would be glad to fight one last time if to die in such a way.

                But no one pointed, and no one screamed, and no one truly blamed him but himself. It made the world silent except for the voices of the dead, and it made everything just worse. He wasn’t worthy of his forgiving men, he wasn’t worthy of their loyalty, and running away sounded like a decent course of action.

                Instead, he couldn’t find it in himself to raise his feet from his bedroom, neither did his eyes ever close for long as he waited for the harbinger of his doom to come forward and voice everything that resided on his mind. He wouldn’t allow him to leave without at least saying it.

                Daud needed to know how true that was, and indeed if it was true, he needed details. If Delilah’s plan was to possess Emily, as impossible and otherworldly as it sounded, he would understand, then. The world would make sense, and he would have nothing else as a secret in his mind. The details, paintings, statues, rituals, those were just the details of a tale he had been assigned to put an end at. And he could understand why, why the Leviathan would offer him this, why it was, indeed, a _gift._

                The chance to bargain with the dead Empress on the end of the times. Whenever his spirit was floating on the Void, he would get to sit down with her and suffer her delicate but fierce gaze and listen to her ranting about how much chaos he had sown; to reprimand him, was an Empress’ job. He was the worst of criminals, and herself the totem of justice. But he would kneel down in front of the dark haired, elegant woman and tell her, not the Empress, but the woman and mother underneath, of this tale. About his regret, and how he had done his best to revert his actions, even if too late, and perhaps even saved her daughter from a mad Witch.

                It wasn’t reparations. Nothing on this world would fix and make this as they were before. But he had regretted it deeply and while he couldn’t just promise his hands wouldn’t shed blood again, it wouldn’t be anything like before. He would stand there for the judgement of her spirit, and hers only. And he was fine with whatever she settled for. And he hoped that she would find peace, and her spirit wouldn’t roam the streets angrily anymore – her fall seemed to have bred ruin, and if it was the doing of her corrupted spirit, he would like to do his part on putting a woman to rest.

                The rest his own mother must have not gotten, as she turned Serkonos inside out, looking for him but he was nowhere to be found, not even in her dreams. He could only imagine the despair the Pandyssian woman had felt, it had been enough to kill her at the end. If the Empress felt the same, he was her killer but he would also put an end to her worries and her search. He stole a little girl from her path but also saved her spirit. If the world was kind, she would die soon as well, soon but untouched and would be reunited with her mother on the Void, where harm would reach for the Kaldwins no more.

                So he earned to know. He deserved to know. If this had been put on his path, if this was his gift and everything else just revolved around it, then he ought to know.

                Listening to Corvo talking about Empires, however, made his throat close up with something akin to pain, that reduced him to his insignificance. He thought only Billie’s betrayal could make him feel this small and powerless, but hearing of a Witch dwelling on the world as if it was something out there for him to just reach out and grasp, as if it was nothing too hard or that he was prepared to do at some point, it effectively made his breathing hold still, and with this sentiment, the world seemed to hold on a halt as well.

                _Never make an enemy of a Witch._

                Praise be to his mother’s wisdom, but he wasn’t even sure what he could do if he unconsciously stood between them as they fought. He hadn’t come this far after Delilah hoping to kill her or make an enemy out of her; he had sought only to understand who she was on Dunwall. And now that he knew her plans, he would be thankful to ruin them, quick and fast and as discreetly as possible.

                He had never thought Delilah would attack first to defend her plans, and he hadn’t thought that what she was planning was so grand that its worth would light up on Corvo’s eyes as well. Them clashing on one another wouldn’t be something he wanted to be near to watch, but them side by side sounded as unlikely as impossible to stand against. And he feared, something that hadn’t yet faded, and would never fade from a reasonable man’s heart. The fear of Witches was the most reasonable of fears that the Abbey was correct to teach.

                _A sword where it was due._ If he wanted to save his hide – Kaldwins now forgotten on the back of his mind – he had only to act. Pick his sword and a bury it within a sleeping crow’s heart that would still and open his beautiful eyes one last time to look at him and Daud wouldn’t have it in him to regret such action. Like the Overseers, his fear would justify his actions; his fears would make him forgive himself. After all he wasn’t alone on the world. Not agreeing to the Royal Spymaster would be potentially the most dangerous thing he could do to his men, unprepared to leave as they were. To let Corvo live was the most dangerous thing he could do to his men now.

                Whatever came to be of himself was of little importance, like most men, his morals were susceptible to the adversities and bent when they needed to. His morals were worth nothing when risk surpassed just him. A killer never feared much for his own life, or the life of targets, of the lives he would come across in his path. But at home, all killers were out of their wolf skin and that was the danger of mankind: they were at heart, all men. And they feared the wolves that would come searching for what truly mattered.

                _Ego homini lupus est._ He was the wolf to men. He sought wolves where they laid. And on similar fashion, a wolf just as mighty would come for him and he knew that the lives that stood around and in its path would mean nothing to the approaching hunter.

                So he feared. And he watched. And he balanced his sword, as he paced while holding the blade against his cheek, his both hands balancing the heavy steel as if the heat of his skin and his will would temper it. He crossed swords with himself, with his mind, and he waited. He would have his answers before his kill. But by the Void, it was hard to prowl on this cage that was the crossroads of his life and just wait.

                He had his answers soon enough. He heard of dreams of Empires and Corvo delivered it with so much serene might and willpower, that for a moment he thought of just letting him go. Perhaps would be better for the Empire. May whatever be with his spirit on the Void, he didn’t deserve anything akin to redemption anyway, if the consequences of this was his spirit remaining restless, then he would just accept the shackles of his afterlife sentence. Perhaps Corvo indeed would make a great Emperor.

                Instead, he got a smile that shone brighter when it was turned at him. It was fierce and drowsy but no less bright, that kissed him with exhilaration as if he had handed him the answers of all his questions; and he had a feeling this was exactly what happened. It was youthful and felt honest, like a Leviathan’s curiosity but also full of gladness, far more than Daud knew how to handle with his own bare hands.

                The Knife of Dunwall was not a creature to be thankful for. Some Whalers had been picked from the worst situations from the streets, and saw in him for that moment, some sort of saviour that he quickly worked out of their minds for he wasn’t one. He killed, all he did was wrong and tainted, he turned that gratefulness of the urchins into swords for him that had been there to guard and surround him like a swarm as he made his name and grandness known. They didn’t have a slimmer of reason to be thankful to him, there were apologies due instead from his side but he had never wasted the spit to hand it to them.

                Thankfulness was something he wasn’t worth of having, from no one on this world. But receiving it with tenderness stole his breath from him. He just wasn’t sure if it was his will breaking, or the sheer disgust he felt at himself and the world.

                Daud wasn’t a sea of change; he was boring, old, admittedly stubborn and inflexible. But those words revolved on his head enough he couldn’t focus on the books and the news he received at all.

                The Brigmore Manor. It should be the focus of his attention. He had lived long in Dunwall and grew to know by ear and flavour its most sorted corners and crevices. The Manor was old news, everyone had been through it, pirates, smugglers, everyone and their mother and the Outsider. He had a feeling that this wasn’t even the first coven to take place and residence on the once luxurious manor, which still had some remnants of it on its century-old foundations. Elegant, exquisite and abandoned. Green groves, pale pastel walls and softness made it stand from all other abandoned manors by the riverside. It had held in itself a vengeance from the woods the Brigmore family had reaped to turn into coal. Surrounded by green, he wasn’t sure if Delilah was marked in her skin by the Manor, or was it the other way around.

                He had tomes on about its history, dotted with sparse details that would be important to keep in mind. There were milestones to find it, and more often than not, what lay beyond the quarantine barriers stood as a secret from those of within. A smuggler would know exactly what gangs operated on the area, that he would inevitably have to approach by boat and count with some reinforcements medically and supply wise, as well the means of a quick escape if everything came down to ashes.

                It spoke enough of his life that the best bet he had on the subject was Lizzy Stride. Updating his logs about her however would prove it to be quite the task; he had few, if not no man out there on the streets, and on the networking jobs, the next to be updated on the list was Lizzy Stride. Some of his logs were beyond a semester old, which when they spoke about a smuggler and her restless life, it meant he had close to nothing on her.

                The men were unwilling to leave just yet. Mourning desolated their hearts and they didn’t want to stare into Overseers’ masks so soon, so he allowed them to stumble around more often than not; drinking their hearts away or trying to recover from the weight of that drink. There was music more often than not, and warm wintery beverages to warm their hands and hearts on the cold that froze their tears whenever they still had some to share.

                Despite most, talking to them did bring some brightness to their eyes. Not comfort, but awareness. And what a value it had. It brought lightness to their hearts to know what had truly happened, and the whispers of Witches that they shared – one thing that the Arcane Bond did nothing to clench was their interest about the supernatural and the whispers of the black eyed Leviathan that only Daud had the privilege and curse of knowing directly. They gathered their bone charms and put exquisite names to them from the effects they could feel from them; a habit Daud learned to develop as well.

                Whenever it was about Witches, instead of feeling the fear he expected out of them, he was met with silent uproars of curiosity and wondering questions from the silliest to the darkest. Delilah became a known nightmare that like him, if they were given the opportunity, they would pace, circle, watch, press blades against their cheek and they would kick the woman until they had their answers and only then the damned heretic would be put down like they were supposed to. Self-preservation didn’t seem so interesting in comparison to the flames of curiosity they bore, which would be their end.

                Perhaps his as well, given that hadn’t put a blade where it was due, and let spells of words warp his thinking. Damned Witch, and be damned his curiosity on them.

                He had gathered the men to find some clothes that would fit the Witch. He now could return to the Hound Pits Pub, but Daud honestly preferred the creature close so he could see his movements, each and every one of them. He couldn’t assume the risk of not knowing. The fact that the Outsider’s abduction and his brand clouded the Witch’s senses enough to make him unsure on his feet, it did help. If he couldn’t keep much of a balance, even he had a feeling taking flight would be unsuitable and Thomas, forever thoughtful, had shown him around the place so he could bathe and finally undress from a coat that reeked of smoke and rain.

                The price of keeping him around however, was the disappearance of a box of Cullero cigars that he was saving for when the plague finally ended, and the fact his fireplace had an overcoat and boots drying by the rack before it, which seemed to suck up all the heat the fire produced. The price was that there was a _murder_ living on what was left of the rooftops, and his most comfortable chair by the window had been stolen. There, _perched_ , was a Witch whose bare feet were against the bars of the window and his best cigars were lazily smoked away under the faint sunlight that blessed his favourite window.

                There was a damned murder on the back of his favourite chair, on his favourite rail, on his favourite window, on his favourite Witch’s calf and Daud was close of using them as shooting targets when they _laughed._ Didn’t happen often but sometimes they cawed and it sounded like an uproar of laughter and it was not good at all when the same sound left Corvo’s lips as if they were all laughing of the same joke.

                He convinced himself he watched it closely because of fear. But in truth he had never witnessed a more devastating and beautiful natural disaster in his whole life, and he wanted distance from it. Thomas came to the rescue to politely call Corvo out for lunch with the Whalers, and the Witch returned the courteous bow like a couple before walking towards the ball room, arm in arm under the unspoken excuse of _lack of balance._ The bastards found one another, and he wasn’t sure who was the most slick in their courtesies.

                Daud always offered it the sense of doubt – Corvo only played with him - but when the black birds laughed and Corvo grinned over his shoulder as he walked off, he knew there was something going on there that he was too daft to pick up. Outsider be damned, he was being played. In some way, some game he didn’t understand, but he was and he knew that. He was being used, and his most negative mind picked up a paper to make a diagram. His mind worked better when he could put it in circles, boxes, and connect with lines and arrows until he got himself lost.

                Sounded reasonable that the Witch was using him to get Delilah out of the way. Sounded logical, Daud would have done the same and that was the primordial reason why it couldn’t be that simple. If Daud understood something about Corvo, was that he didn’t understand Corvo. So that it was this simple didn’t make sense; Witches sought for much greater objectives than just killing another and trotting their way back to a Pub to rig Hound Pit fights.

                Which Daud didn’t like at all, and his controlling nature liked to put his allies where he wanted them, and there despite of being a nearby location, it wasn’t the safest or most well hidden from the Abbey’s sight or anyone’s for that matter. Someday an Overseer would come forth for a drink and would see the mark Corvo wore bare and he would have his Witch put in spikes. The rule about the Abbey was that those that got into Holger Square were assumed dead, it was never worth it to try and get in to bail someone out.

                They used to do it; gather all their forces and hit the Abbey fiercely before the martial law had been given to the Overseers, and it had soon been crowded. They learnt that having a Whaler arrested meant the whole pack would come to fetch the other so they had been prepared. And those couple of times they had dared to go and do their best to bail out their captured brethren, it had been a massacre. It got the Watch’s attention, and every moment got harder to even get close to Holger Square.

                So they stabilised that anyone at Holger Square would be considered dead, and a needle on their gloves and boots would make sure they departed on their own way. It hurt less, for them and for the captured to do so in their way. They wouldn’t utter a word, and they fell strong and mighty and fierce like no other. Like Assassins indeed, falling in battle and no other manner.

                Witches however, died mad and shrieking and deafening and loudly. He wouldn’t put men at risk to fetch Corvo at Holger Square, so he had to watch out for the Witch that at times seemed too blind to the issues of this crude, _mortal_ world he was forced to live instead of unleashing his true nature as a deathly creature of storms and Void. Another Pandyssian God, being brewed at the stone city of Dunwall. Sometimes Corvo reminded him of the Outsider, with his fleeting grins of a vulture that seemed unholy and made him shiver, but were always bathed with wonder and fine beauty, like a self-inflicted death.

                This nonattachment with the reality, this mortal reality, seemed to make him light minded at times; looking into a blackbird’s eyes and from those equally dark eyes of his, he seemed to unravel more of the world, or the creature’s mind. His serenity, as if the plague and the floods couldn’t reach him up there in the skies, made him walk every time too sure, and too surreal. Daud thought he had a presence when he walked inside crowded rooms, but he hadn’t met Corvo until recently. And despite the quiet discretion of his being, he had an intoxicating presence as if all shadows would scurry off to surround him, and all secrets were just reaped from the mortal men’s minds and hearts as his eyes scanned every soul there, choosing which one would be unfortunate to hear the Banshee’s scream.

                It was Daud. More often than not those eyes would lay on his and the banshee would grin, and he knew that when he died, the Witch would stand over his body as if to take his spirit to the Void; it was him his prey, and Corvo would eagerly wait for the day he died to steal the last thoughts that passed through his mind, and by his touch, he would be taken into the Void. Harbingers of dread, of doom, the blackbirds would lead him towards his afterlife sentence.

                And he accepted that gaze with fear but resignation. He accepted that he was being played with fear and resignation. The banshee frightened with its dark eyes but promised to be there also, to write about his last feats as something that interested and amazed it. It was the only certainty Daud could find. That Corvo would be the spirit to take him to the Void and also the cleric on the world that would tell his tale to those whom he decided that deserved to hear. Such were crows, whom listened to words and spread it like plague across the city.

                It brought uneasiness to his heart, however. His eyes could hardly focus on his notes and papers and always went back to the black birds that sometimes would get out of their nests by the roof to look at him. He was sure they were keeping an eye on the Master Assassin for their leader, just to make sure he wouldn’t run away. But alas, if they brought death, he had enough stubbornness and wit on his heart to tell them that he and Death were old friends, and he would depart by its side, never being dragged by it.

                The black birds did nothing but stare back at him at his annoyed, silence discourse. But they flew away when he found a paperweight to throw at the murder, which just made him a little more satisfied with himself.

                And back to reading he was.

                Or he thought he was, before hours passed and his mind noted a few things. Thomas never made it back, neither did the Witch.

                At first, he kept his eyes sharp and tuned but he caught no sound from the impending doom. Which was a fearsome prospect in itself, for a silent apocalypse ruined his dreams of dying almighty and in battle. Such shallow thoughts however, didn’t erase the weight that sat down on his heart as he put his papers and notes aside to get up and pick his sword as he tuned on Void Gaze.

                He let his fingers drum on the hilt of his sword, more of a habit than intending to use it unless he had a strong, undeniable reason to do so. The lack of Whalers was unusual but also expected. They were on reduced numbers, and they had the couple of days off to mourn and recover from their hangovers. There was a lot to have done so those whom wished to work the grief away had it as an option, but the cold made it extremely unlikely that anyone ventured too far from the warmer inside of the building to chase whatever their eyes set at.

                His nose led him at first. The excess of free time apparently was leading to exotic dishes, being there on the air as he approached the wide kitchen, followed by the sounds which made him tune in his Void given gaze.

                The wide space couldn’t be wide enough sometimes. The table hadn’t been long enough, so they had put another by its side and replaced most chairs by long benches, where they would all gather for a near military-like breakfast, the kitchen forever occupied by someone every three hours as all sorts of shifts came and went, there was three breakfasts every day, so to make up for their odd routines, always at three, six and nine of the morning. Lunch lasted forever or so it felt like, until someone decided it was time to turn it into dinner which was constantly happening and being cooked again until the next day. Three of the morning was the best hour to be there, hands down.

                Those of the earliest shift would be walking up like Weepers, stumbling and enjoying a thorough laziness that those that just came back from jobs craved to have. They would mistreat the still asleep Whalers out of envy for their well-rested features, which led to the most strange of conflicts and conversations. Wishing them a good morning would receive a bitter, exhausted utter of the night owls: _‘This is not a good morning’_ , they would say. And yet, wishing them a good night would also bring up the sleepy yawns of the well-rested Whalers and a grin of the most energetic morning birds who would never fail to correct it: _‘It is not a good night just yet.’_

                At three in the morning, there were no winners. Just dirty mugs and breadcrumbs sticking to thick Morleyan eyebrows; as well dreams that were ruined by tiredness, while others were just ready to face the day and be ruined. It was never met with only bitterness however, and in fact, was the least hurried meal of the day for those who attended. It was by far, the most crowded and odd. The night affected them in odd ways, and Daud would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. It was a bit too early from his usual waking hour, but often he would lose track of the events of the day and would be sleeping after attending the third hour’s breakfast.

                He didn’t like his reports being handed by greasy, buttered fingers and put under his overflowing coffee mug, but he could survive such things. Even more if it was for the sake of free, simple, pure hearted entertainment. It did bring a warm sensation to his heart as he leaned on the doorway, mostly covered by the shadows of the wintery sun, and looked inside.

                It was a late brunch, some hours into the evening and almost all of them were gathered there. There were ribs on the plates by the sink – no courageous soul had volunteered to tend to the dishes just yet – and the air smell of spices and ox milk and Pandyssian cocoa. Wintery treats, he would assume. Maybe there were actually baked goods, he wouldn’t doubt it. He couldn’t tell exactly, for always when there were baked goods they were the centre of attention, but that wasn’t the case.

                Instead, there was an intense silence for a deep, serene voice laced in _passion_ preached, almost like a sermon, full of strength and might and intensity. It was a spell, if not so simple, and it had the Whalers’ attention fully and absolutely.

                Corvo was telling a story.

                “-and I swear to the Wheel of the Void that the moment I raised my head, there it was.”

                It had intensity and thorough passion, as the Witch came to his sight, his dark eyes wide like the full moon, gazing into the unknown as if the world had halted around him, and for a moment, it seemed like it had.  No one dared to breathe, and so to don’t be noticed, neither did Daud as he watched from the doorway the Serkonan Witch hold himself in what seemed like a too intense memory that stood somewhere no one could see, but they imagined, the Whalers saw the sentiment behind those eyes and were held on the same breathless, soundless awe.

                Daud had no idea what exactly he was witnessing, but he didn’t have it in him to utter a sound and break the aura that surrounded the room in such a thick sentiment that made his skin crawl. And eventually, in that breathless, halted stance that seemed to last forever, Corvo _breathed_ , and like a spell, the Whalers did the same, as quietly as they could.

                “…I couldn’t move. The snow was digging unto my hands and legs and freezing my marrow, the snowstorm seemed to stab me through the furs I wore, and it stung like a rain of arrows but I couldn’t move. Untouched by the hailstorm, there it was.” He murmured, quiet, _moved,_ a sentiment they all shared in almost as much intensity as they watched the Witch. Corvo didn’t move, frozen in what seemed the shock of the memory as he filled his lungs in a sharp sound, and in sync, the Whalers did the same.

                _Witchcraft,_ Daud was sure. Of the heaviest, darkest kind, able to pull all of his Whalers in a trance that mimicked the Serkonan Witch into feeling what he felt, seeing what he saw, experiencing, through his words, the moment in which things seemed to have changed. Daud wanted to intrude, for some reason he couldn’t tell, he wanted to interrupt but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The Witch leaned closer to them, putting a hand on the table close to a familiar red mug, and his voice dropped down a notch.

                The Whalers, without exception, all leaned closer to listen. Daud included.

                “…I thought it would be the end there, and I would be buried alive by the storm, but fate sewed something much, much more fearsome. He was there, the _Kuryak_ , the great Tyvian Wolf. The size of a blood ox but while my legs were buried on the snow, his paws bigger than my skull weren’t deep enough not even to be covered. Its lowered head aligned with mine, and his eyes looked into mine, timeless, _ruthless_ , and unmoving as the hailstorm didn’t seem to touch it, as it stared into my soul.”

                Corvo was breathless, the Whalers were breathless, _Daud_ was breathless. It wasn’t a matter of believing or not, but the way the room halted and darkened, and the Witch’s voice delivered his magic. It was there, the terror of those whom had seen the Leviathans’ eyes as they sailed, and the river men who saw washed up bodies by the riverside, half eaten by the hagfishes, gasp one last time for breath. It was real, unbelievable and real. Their terror was real, all shadows on the corners were real, and they might not ever live it but for a moment, they all lived the experience.

                “It is said that time can be meaningless, and space and the universe only exist for a brief moment of time, in a much greater time only the Void can measure. Time is the only real thing, that chooses what happens, when it does, and for how long. All times end, all ends and all beginnings come from a single place. And time held itself there, and everything there existed longer than any other moment of my life.” He murmured, almost too quietly as he raised a hand as if he could see something to grasp. “It looked at me, with more understanding than any soul on this mortal world. It knew exactly who I was, who I could have been and who I would be. I couldn’t fear it, no more than I earned to drink on the airs of the beast, mortal and earthly but ethereal, tawny like a slithering dawn the mountains wouldn’t ever see.”

                “I reached for it, on the drunkenness of a deadman and the timelessness of the Void. I will never forget the feeling of its fur, on its jaw between my fingers, wide enough to swallow children up to eight years of age. It would be the last warm thing I would ever feel, as I felt it breathing hot air against my face; a final comfort, before dying, a slimmer of salvation, wrapped into a machine of war whom showed me kindness at my last moment. I almost could hear him, louder than the storm and my own heartbeats. _‘Pray at last,Ved’ma.’_ “

                “…And I did.” He held that last prayer under his breath, before out of a sudden his hand landed on the table in a loud, sudden noise, no louder however than the sounds of knees hitting the underneath of the table with the jump the Whalers gave, so sudden and quick and breaking the moment with harshness, like a gunshot on the early morning and their hearts, he was sure, skipped their beats as well as the Witch spoke. _“And that’s how I died.”_

The silence reigned for a couple more seconds, in that halted, profane disbelief that had a flavour of its own. It was only broken by Dimitri, whom seemed distressed to no end, enough to have his pale features painted even paler in hues of green and purple, Daud had never seen him like this before. “…No way that happened…”

                Corvo turned his eyes to the young Whaler, and his dark features could make anything possible and void of doubt. They had seen the world, and the wolf was there, in those dark eyes that let out nothing and could make an Overseer question his Scriptures upon the endless Void he braced within. He took a deep but short breath, unrelenting dead gaze, before it broke down to grin that was so charmingly _warm_ that seemed eerie.

                “Of course it didn’t, dear, but I love the faces you all make.” He laughed, and it seemed to snap out the spell as breaths were released like the snapping line of a fiddle. It snapped, with the tension on their bodies and the expressions on their faces, and they breathed for once and there was laughter, which sounded so brutally honest that it made his heart ache no less.

                They had it in them to laugh, still. The world seemed to be ending on these last days, and they were laughing. And it wasn’t about forgetting those who were gone and moving on, truly wasn’t, but seemed to astound him to hear they were still alive inside their hearts. From all the ruin, despair and betrayal, they were still capable of laughing and it was so honest that it hurt, it echoed on his heart, instead of making it lighter. It doused him with fear, more than exhilaration and joy of seeing them light-hearted, for a brief moment.

                He wouldn’t manage losing this laughter again. He would end if he ever lost this like he just lost most of them. He wouldn’t let the world move on from them, because he wouldn’t ever move on. It hurt to see that if he ever lost this again, there would be nothing left. It was a vulnerable happiness he couldn’t sacrifice. He would set the world on fire if he ever lost their laughter again.

                “Outsider’s eyes, Attano, don’t do that to them.” He had noticed Rulfio on the corner, his arms crossed as he leaned against the stained tiles of the kitchen to listen to whatever was going on, and amongst the ruckus of laughter and chatter of relief and wonder and ‘I knew he was lying all along’, he easily made out Rulfio’s voice above the refreshed youth.

                Corvo’s laughter was nearly musical. It was light-hearted and thoroughly amused, and whenever he laughed, his cheeks would dig in dimples on his cheeks and the corner of his mouth which just made him timeless, eternally young, as if the Void had more than a single habitant and there lived odd Witches too, with their _murder_ and _unkindness_ and they eventually got back to the mortal world to watch closely and create ruckus. It was so light, like laughter, it was beautiful.

                All of it made a clog on his throat, a suffocating sensation that demanded that he left. He felt like he didn't deserve laughter. As if his presence by the doorway, unnoticeable and soundless but watching, would be enough to bring back chaos and ruin to the room. He would ruin it, he knew, for all grief that had been haunting them and stealing from their middle their brothers, sisters and children, that was his doing. That was his _penitence_. He wanted to be around no more, but he also couldn't bring himself to step back and stop watching and _feeling_ something terribly painful, for it was his penitence too.

                To see, and earn, and mourn. And know he brought only bad things, and the consequences of his choices would whiplash around all of them. His legs held him still as he watched them laugh and chatter amongst themselves, before Thomas spoke up. Despite most, the orderly, polite Morleyan had a honeyed heart, and he allowed himself to enjoy and be enraptured and surprised by the story. “Master Attano, was all of the story pure fiction?”

                Corvo looked up at him and shone his bright grin as he shook his head. “No, not at all. I can tell the real story if you wish.”

                There was a small uproar of cheers and raised mugs as well whistling, until Rulfio shook his head, crossing his arms as he spoke up. “Only after you all finish blocking the hallways.”

                There was a disheartened, conjoint whine as well some curses and disagreement; the smaller numbers made it easy to tell them apart as it all happened. Montgomery and Pickford were exchanging curses and death threats but were seated one right next to the other all the same. Dimitri had a pet spot near the end of the table, close to Corvo, and so did Vladko whom had moved there to see the Witch better - someday he would contact Sokolov on the Academy so he would get someone trustworthy to make a couple of them personal, prescription glasses.

                Thomas stood behind Rinaldo, stiff and watching but amused nonetheless, which was a rare, however fitting sight for him. His bland features served him best when he wore them lightly, not with the frown and seriousness of always. But times were hard, and there wasn't much to laugh about anymore, and Thomas sacrificed much like everyone did; but the first thing he let die was his sense of humour and how to take off the Whaler mask and be a young man on his free time. The mass of chatter was often led by Rinaldo, and many voices led his eyes to their faces. Quinn, Coleman, Dodge, Dust, Akila, Devon… The list went on longly, and the picture was sweet, perfect even.

                Perfect because he wasn't there. Perfect because if he wasn't there, it meant he couldn't ruin anything but his shadow that never left his side and exposed back. She whom sacrificed much too, and home would forever feel like a place she would approve of. If he was seeing this image in a vision, and all faces but hers were there, it just meant he had to look back, and Billie would be watching with a small smile.

                Over his shoulder, however, he looked as if the dream would prove itself to him and he would mend that hole in his heart just a little. She wasn't there. Half of them weren't there. Aeolos and Walter weren't there. Rapha, Tynan, Thorpe and Yuri weren't either. Many others weren't, and never would be again.

                “After dinner, then.” Corvo said, and it was met with sighs but later seemed better than never. Rulfio nodded, offering the Witch a grin as he clapped his ungloved hands and spoke up. “You heard it. All up and back to work. Whelps, with me. If y’all can leave bed and bother guests, then y’all can train.”

                The groans echoed as a single cloud of hummingbirds, moaning winds by an ajar window as they turned their mugs on the sink, getting the last sip of whatever they were having, as the rush of the wind and ashes hummed on his ears and made his mark burn as they transversed away, without sync and quick, like whistling fireworks being set one by one without sync as they vanished within the minute. Before he knew it, the kitchen was empty, leaving behind lines and clans, groups and gangs of ugly, atrocious mugs, making the long table their battlefield, city and country.

                Corvo got his attention again then, as the kitchen was empty except for him whom warped his fingers around a red mug, and he sipped the beverage that must be cold from the wrinkled expression on his features, like the snarl of a feline. Daud wasn't sure if he noticed him then, or if the Witch knew he was there all along, but Corvo raised his eyes at him and curled a finger towards the Master Assassin, beckoning him close.

                He wanted to run away, find a hole on the sewers hidden from the Weepers and swarms so he could distance himself for the rest of his life, and live off from memories and guilt. Daud had never ran away of anything, escapes were choices, plans, but never he had ran away from the unavoidable. This, all of this was his doing. The sorrow, the weight on his shoulders, the guilt and the mourning and the consequences none of them had acted to bring upon themselves; he didn't have the right to even think of running away, but he did, craved it even.

                Instead, he made it to the sink, past the table to have a look inside the pans. There was stew; it seemed like that with the shortage of supplies, blockade and quarantine barriers, all there was available was assembled into stews, fitting for the season and early winter of Dunwall. It was probably decent even if thickened with flour, but the sight was enough to kill whatever remnant of hunger he might have in his being. Instead, he reached for the still, probably filled with the blood ox milk and cocoa beverage; he could safely assume it from the heat of the metal, just from touching the faucet.

                The Master Assassin reached for the hooks on the wall, the highest where his mug ought to be hanged by the handle. His fingers found nothing.

                “You have great children here, despite being Assassins.” Corvo said, lips dark and brushing a metallic mug malted maroon, and its surface, risked past the paint into the metal with a key for years now, read ‘Daud’.

                He only minded the _‘You have great children’_ part. “I know.”

                Not only great, they were good hearted, pure where the taint of the world couldn't touch, and he thanked the world for giving them something to laugh and entertain, on the same amount he cursed this earth he stepped on for not dying and withering when those same good children _cried_ and it was his fault. If only he had known, he would have been different. If only he knew, if only he was allowed to see fully the repercussions of his choices. If only he knew his choices wouldn't hit only him. He could handle whatever harm and dread the world threw at him. But he couldn't handle seeing the world targeting them with such a vengeance. They mattered, and became his world.

                He should be grateful for Corvo to lift their spirits, but he wasn't. Instead, he walked to the table to pick the mugs, as many he could and take them to the sink for someone else to handle. The last one he picked was from Corvo's fingers and lips, almost slipping the now cold beverage on the Witch. What an offense it would have been. “Can't you bloody read?”

                “I can, that's why I got yours; you were absent.” He said, and while he didn't gift Daud with a smile - he didn't deserve any of it - the Master Assassin was sure that behind those dark eyes, he held his amusement all for himself but didn't hide it well. “...Not my fault either that you don't keep a set for the guests.”

                Daud almost dropped his mug on the sink as he emptied it. “We don't have guests _, Attano._ ”

                Thomas’ demeanour got to him, as well the way he would at times spit out the last names and it rolled out of the Morleyan’s tongue like venom. He felt threatened here, invaded into his house and the circle of his Assassins by the Witch that worked like a spy, slithering inside his life where it hurt. Like venom, like corruption, perhaps Daud should have listened to a sermon or two about how pretty faces and friendly neighbours might not show it, but they harboured the Outsider at their home, and corruption in their heart.

                “I can see that. Perhaps I should bring mine from home.” He said with a small sigh, nails and fingers bending and entwining one another to make a small bridge were he rested his chin, elbows braced on the table as he looked at the wall thoughtfully.

                He was so daring. He could irk Daud with little, and he never understood exactly why or how, except he had that effect that made the Master Assassin’s blood boil. There was recognition and also mistrust, respect as well there was segregation. He wanted him away but couldn't afford it, and he wasn't sure if that was what he truly wanted. He was thankful and blamed him for all the ailments of the world. He found the hair on the back of his head bristling as his molasses ground roughly against one another as he sipped from his warm beverage.

                Corvo was getting too comfortable, too daring. Each step he took forward, Daud was taking one back, and losing ground. He growled no more, but it darkened his heart. He didn't need to decide between running off or not, he was being pushed away instead.

                He could recognise however, a couple good actions, unspoken, unrequired, unasked for, but that delivered actions which asked for thankfulness that he couldn't certify were genuine. But after so much, he could only mutter under his breath. “Didn't fancy you for a storyteller.”

                If Daud was honest, he had a soft side for stories. Some dwelled almost like spy work; without prices, without risks, without loyalty to reality which allowed him to dwell on like a passtime instead of the craft in which he specialised himself and bet his life on, every single time. He was enamoured with stories but most of the time, couldn't read for too long before the myriad of embellishments and seasoned information made him tired. But Corvo, with how he delivered it, intense, passionate and romantic, managed to enthral him for a moment. Managed to bring from him something pure still on his heart, that managed to stay still idle enough to listen.

                From amongst logs and reports, short and firm, his mind grew stale for eons but under the ashes there was still some purity to be amazed by the unknown, laced in mystery and awe. It was uncommon, and Corvo carried with himself the credibility the press seemed to lack - when he spoke of magic, of Witchcraft, the world seemed to hold no other being as trustworthy. They were all heretics, but ignorant in comparison to him. When he spoke, it undoubtedly delivered truth; or it was all a fairy tale and if it was really true mattered not, they would absorb it either way.

                It was a sweetness like wonder and brightness, in this world of chaos and dark, damp everything. “I will take it as a compliment.”

                He wasn't wrong to do so. Daud refilled his mug with the warm beverage; the stew looked interesting but his empty stomach curled at the thought of filling that emptiness. Blood ox milk and spices already felt too heavy for him, but for now, he would live. He took a seat for himself on his pet chair, close to the counter as he leaned it on its hind legs until he could hear the backrest bump against the counter, and made himself comfortable. Crossed legs, crossed arms, his mug on his fingers, pressed against his bicep and hot through his shirt. There wasn't enough sunlight coming from the window anymore, and he mourned not coming earlier.

                He would have enjoyed something to hear and to watch laughter and wonder and awe from there, on the back, from a distance, where he couldn’t taunt the aura. “They like it, its decent entertainment.”

                The wrinkle on Corvo's features, like a cat hissing at the rain, easily translated that the answer didn't exactly please. He wore disagreement in his features as he got up, rolling up his sleeves as he walked to Daud's side and turned the faucet so to rinse the mugs. It didn't please the Master Assassin either, and he wore it in his features as well. Rulfio wouldn't be pleased to know his favourite punishment chore was being willingly done, it would crop the terror he spread like a menace. Lack of dedication was punishable by chores, and now he would run out of one.

                Also, he had seen Corvo working at the kitchens. A waste of talent, that was toughening hands that only witchcraft should come to harm. A sword, perhaps, would suit him finely as well. But not pans and kettles, those mortal burdens did not suit Witches, and the sight of such a thing tasted like an offense. Had the same bitter taste as when he had to send the female Whalers disguised as Golden Cat girls for a job; it made his stomach curl to think they were untameable killers, and disguised themselves as powerless hares.

                “It's a necessity of theirs. They are young, and are full of wonders, doubts and questions, Daud. They trust you and one another to speak the ideals and example what they will do once outside; their understanding of the world depends on yours.”

                It sounded bitter to his ears, even if Corvo was quiet to mutter such things, serene and almost Void of critics but still, carried weight to him. He knew it had weight, what he said and did directly and thoroughly touched them, now more than ever he could see the consequences reaching for them as well. But for him, it was easier to put aside the blade and give it rest than it was to say out loud he didn't know how to talk to them. Storytelling was almost comic to expect it of him, he was hardly this well versed in communication.

                He didn't know he lacked it so much before now, it wasn't so obvious until he could see his men taking up on swords and against all thought and belief of his, they were more adamant than himself to pursue the Witch at Brigmore, wherein she laid. Unlike him, they were eager to have a Witch amongst themselves, not so frightened with betrayal from the outside but comforted by the information that would open their eyes. They displayed the thankfulness he covered, and it was enough he didn't need to do it himself. Their arms were his, their words his thoughts, their actions his decisions.

                Their thankfulness was more than enough; Corvo wouldn't drag more from him. “I'm aware.”

                “But willingly deaf and blind to it.” Corvo returned, not looking away from the dishes and Daud drowned his frown and tightened lips into his mug, as he sipped of the warm beverage that steamed softly, enough to make his face feel wet every time he was within the warm cloud to drink.

                He wished he had something decent to say in return. Corvo was here to give him information on Witches and, in an unspoken agreement, to overlook whatever Daud would come across that might be out of his expertise but within the Witch’s. He wasn't here to stitch his back, tell stories to his men, neither to make room for himself on the Master Assassin's bed, for the last couple of days in which he had been too deep in thought to even dare say anything about it. His men spoke up their decision to pursue Delilah, when they could have left or simply stayed out of it, and Daud would heed for their decision was his. The Master Assassin was coming back on tracks and finding enough will to get up in the mornings.

                He wouldn't be letting things pass without objections, not anymore at least. This, whatever this was that they kept doing every time they got too close for too long, this wouldn't happen loosely and instinctively as it had, not anymore. His men's dedication grounded him a little and this _thing_ they had, that meant nothing to them but a nuisance they indulged on when their blood heated too much, this would stop now. He wouldn't even go out of his way to cease it; it wasn't even hard to think he would be putting an arm's length between him and the Witch from now on, for Corvo meant absolutely nothing to him and his men.

                The Serkonan Witch was naught but a very resourceful ally that would spend a short while in their lives, whom just happened to react oddly mischievously to Daud's presence and the Master Assassin suffered of the same ailment. It was nothing. Just a nuisance. “Do you know Lizzy Stride, leader of the Dead Eels?”

                This got the Witch's attention for a brief moment, as he looked at Daud before going back to the rinse and dry the mugs one by one, and sort them on their corresponding hooks by the rack. “No, but I know someone that does.”

                “Trustworthy?” He asked, bringing the mug to his lips once more and sipping of the end of the liquid. It was warm and at the bottom, small bits of powdered leaves and spices were gathering; he let himself hold the mug still so it would sit there and he could take the last mouthful of the winter beverage.

                “To me, yes, very much so. What information on her do you need?” He asked, simple and in the same serenity of always, even if his eyes were sharp to look at Daud as the Master Assassin moved his leg back and forth restlessly; the synthesis of a wolfhound too long caged.

                “If I am to trust someone to get on a ship, sail upriver, and back me up on the doorway of a coven, I'd trust no one but Stride. I need to know where she currently is, and what her current situation is.” He and Lizzy went a long way back as allies; she needed people killed and more often than not, Daud would make it for free if she would return to favour by helping him getting people killed. It was an old trade, which they developed unto maybe his oldest and most solid anchor on his networks; her smuggling, her ship, his blade and schemes. He could only hope that this chaos Dunwall was living at the moment hadn't made that unshakeable stone move from where it stood, last time he checked on her.

                The Witch carefully moved to take Daud's mug from his fingers, making the Master Assassin frown as he washed it at last, rinsed, dried, and hanged it in its specific hook by the rack against the wall. He didn't complain, no, but he frowned at it. Nothing in this world could feel as bold and intrusive as a Witch on his kitchen, washing his dishes, courting with his men and being so dreadfully insufferable to handle at times. “It says a lot about you that she is whom you'd trust.”

                If there was anything underneath his intention besides pointing out Daud had odd underworld connections, then he didn't pick it. His mind couldn't see as unusual and foreign anymore the fact he handled pirates and killers and Witches as close allies; if it bothered him, if Daud was the only Assassin the Witch had ever worked with, then he supposed it was Corvo's problem, not Daud's. He didn't quite care for the ethics of others if they had an use for him; he wasn't out there like an Overseer, preaching and judging left and right. Few things could bother him in such a way as to make him stray away from them and their usefulness. That it even really mattered made him wonder what was Corvo expecting to hear.

                The bite on his lower lip read many secrets that Daud didn’t know the language of. He had no idea what the Witch was expecting and what was going through his mind, but there was something there, which came up as quickly as it had subdued. Did he truly not know of Stride, or was it something else? Daud never cared to hear of other’s antics and morals and ideals, he didn’t have to mind them most of the time as those that came to him tended to trust that there was nothing lower than Daud’s own morals. Maybe they were right. But in this case, he had not been sought; he searched for a Witch instead, and was in debt in fact with him for his services.

                He told himself that this debt was what made him mindful of this displeasure Corvo showed. It truly could be nothing more, and nothing less. “…You truly want to approach and harbour by the manor’s riverside?”

                Daud could find himself shrugging a little, looking up at Corvo before he reached for his breast pocket and took his cigarette pack from it. Now that the Witch knew the stash of good beverages and cigars, he was beyond bitter to think the only thing he had to smoke for now were the cheap ones, which tasted like sand more often than not and gave him a cough he was not old enough to be developing. There was no use complaining about it now it was gone, but by the Void, he could be bitter about it. As for the plans of approaching the Manor by the river, was truly the best thing he could come up with.

                “A small boat wouldn’t do? Make it a quiet infiltration instead, wouldn’t be better?” He asked and Daud couldn’t help but to feel his eyes harden. The Knife of Dunwall would love to make it quiet but Delilah would definitely be expecting them; he was not stupid enough to think she wouldn’t be watching. He wouldn’t manage to keep many of the Whalers out of it anymore, they were beyond eager to witch hunt, so perhaps if he convinced them to stay at the ship and guard it away from the Witches, perhaps he could seek Delilah out himself, making sure they were the furthest possible from the real battle, as he discovered what was mightier, his blade or her powers.

                He would talk with Stride to leave after a while. If he was successful on his task, he would come back to her and they would leave normally. If not, he would trust her to take the men back to Dunwall, where a booklet with instructions would be awaiting. Ways and strategies on how to disappear, how to keep mastering themselves in killing, even how to properly set up gangs, shops or how to be admitted at the Academy of Natural Philosophy. He was leaving them the money and the means to do whatever they wanted they wished. He was just adding the last touches to it, and perhaps by the end of Delilah and everything, if by some miracle he ended up living, he perhaps would bid them all farewell one night and would show himself out.

                Either towards someplace in this world or from it altogether, he couldn’t decide just yet; but he was delivering his men something to burn and succeed at before he was gone. He would miss them to bits, without them, whatever he had wouldn’t be a life in itself, but an eternal longing and missing until the end. He would miss their voice, their sacred laughter, their brightness and hearts and the feeling of a family, that people like them shouldn’t have but they built one for themselves. He would forever long to come back to them, but it was best if he didn’t.

                So his plan didn’t sound all too bad to begin with, it served its purpose, in which stopping Delilah was the second thing in his mind. He lit up his cigarette, something he couldn’t do without anymore, the banner of his stress, and counted the seconds in which sulphur burnt and then lit it up. “They won’t let me go alone. Neither will I pick a team of them to undoubtedly die.”

                Corvo stared at him, some sort of strategy coming to his mind as he licked his lips unconsciously, and Daud did the same from watching it. He didn’t exactly mind how he was sounding; his excess of reality about his and their odds on this suicidal mission, the Witch was free to walk out of this anytime, neither did Daud truly count on him to stay for too long, perhaps only to befriend and make a coven out of whatever few couple Whalers whom would love to be Witches so to not lose the abilities they couldn’t live without anymore. The crow looked at him for a too long moment before leaning down to steal Daud’s cigarette, which the Master Assassin thoroughly expected.

                He didn’t expect however, the murmur that came with the movement, which almost made the Master Assassin grin for once. This while was more than enough for the Witch to realise they were never truly unwatched. For a Witch, he got too well and read too much into Assassins. “I will get info on Lizzy Stride then, _and_ get a small boat on the side.”

                Daud raised his eyebrow in curiosity, he sure liked the way Corvo’s head was machining things. Another idea, whatever was it, he would like to hear. The men were still at risk by staying at the Undine on the assault, and while he knew his chances were not great, with them they could be increased but he didn’t have it in him and risk their lives. They were manslayers, not witch hunters. More often than not, they were at the other side of the witch hunt, and he wouldn’t send them to the unknown. If the Brigmore Witches fought back, them being on the Undine or not wouldn’t keep them out of danger.

                He wanted them in Rudshore, safe and sound and close of their things so they could pack and leave if anything went wrong. He would follow their will and avenge their brethren’s death, but he wouldn’t risk more of them dying. He would give them that, if he could, before being gone. He carefully moved his fingers, beckoning the Witch closer as he murmured, once Corvo was within reach. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

                Corvo smiled, and such a sight this close up to him was enthralling. The shadows of his free, curled up in waves, slick black hair cast over his features were showered just perfectly. His dark eyes got even darker; his thick lashes seemed as black as the eyelines of a hawk. His lips were dark, darker than blood and they charmed him into watching as the Witch braced one arm on the counter, over Daud’s shoulder as he muttered. “Talk with the Dead Eel, show the men and explain the plan of going with them. The night before, however, you meet with the smuggler I find and go alone.”

                Sure that seemed like an enticing plan to follow. It implied he would trust himself with Corvo’s smuggler, but also he didn’t have another option. If he wanted to research and network after a second smuggler, he wouldn’t be able to move through the city and hide it from them. While he enjoyed his privacy, he still lived with Assassins well versed on spy work, he taught them all they knew and then they went ahead and learnt a couple tricks of their own. Not enough to make them as good as him, but making them unpredictable enough. He doubted not that they were being watched and doubted even less that if he just vanished for a moment, someone would notice.

                Unless they were all setting themselves up for a mission as big as this one. Daud always liked to do his best and sleep well and uninterrupted before such things, if he could. They wouldn’t intrude, even if it would be hard to sneak out, he could find a way. The idea grew on his mind well enough, and he licked his lips and reached for his cigarette back from Corvo, his fingers lingering a little too much on Daud’s own. “Do you think you can get a trustworthy smuggler, able to pass the quarantine barrier and the gangs and drop me at Brigmore?”

                The Witch nodded slowly, his hand feeling ghostly on the back of the Master Assassin’s head, just a remote presence as he smiled. Daud could feel it crawling like fire, all the way from his cheek in which he could feel the Witch’s breath ghosting against, and it spread all over his features, down his neck and into his spine. His presence made him feel restless but numb, and the heat found itself summed up on the back of his left hand, burning brighter than ever to contrast with the equally bright blue and green on the back of Corvo’s own left hand. Hand that was, speaking of it, harbouring black nails that began to tread and trace the back of his neck, swirling around the short hairs on the nape which made the Assassin almost wither away. Under his shirt, his hair went as up as the ones Corvo played with.

                He should push it away, but he didn’t, not _yet._ “Yes. I have one in mind, that has the documents to pass the barrier and can sail anytime; but I don’t think there is a better moment to go than when they are preparing to do so, and are certain you will be with them.”

                Daud could see the logic. He could just try and leave with the smuggler earlier, but that would certainly be much harder given they always were watchful. He could try and transverse somewhere far, at the Estate district perhaps, but he hadn’t gotten out too much as of late, not too much since the Kaldwin Empress; he wouldn’t risk transversing somewhere that might not even be in one piece in this Void-damned, ever changing city. The Witch had the train of thought on his mind, and Daud was willing to follow this time.

                “Full of contacts now, aren’t you?” He said, just to throw it back this half bite, and half wonder. He was a Master Assassin, and that he had plenty of contacts was but the norm in itself, and left little room for wonder. He was asked to kill someone, or do some spywork, little more, little less. To have contacts was the expectation for a killer of his calibre. When the matter was Corvo, however, he wasn’t sure how trustworthy his contacts may be and how thick their line of trade might be, whatever services were handed left and right. The deals, it might not seem like it, but their nature dictated the strength of their connections.

                Daud would still throw himself headfirst into it. But he couldn’t help but to wonder such things, and the Serkonan Witch’s laughter rumbled for a moment, just as amused and simple as he had been with the Whalers before. Or he was this at ease with whatever killer he came across to, or he was too good at lying at them. And seeing the demonstration of before, the Master Assassin should start considering the Witch could be lying at everything. But he didn’t. For if this was his game, then what awaited him at the end wasn’t betrayal nor lies. Corvo must have things much greater than the Empire in mind, and he shaped his lies with thorough truths.

                Lies mattered not when the one being lied at didn’t exactly care. Whatever end that came forth would be an end he wouldn’t mind. “Do you have any idea how expensive it is to sail to Tyvia? I have dealt with many people to gather the money, and one thing I am sure you know, is that the run makes you acquaintances with the other runners.”

                He wondered what other runners were those, and if perhaps Delilah was one of them. It would explain Corvo being so wary but also eager to fight the Brigmore Witch and see her end met by Daud’s sword. He wasn’t even sure if he planned to end her with his sword; he was an Assassin, he always left home ready to kill but twice before, Corvo had found on the way some other manner to end targets without death. But it was inconsistent, and he wasn’t sure Daud would find the same resources at the Brigmore Manor. Her death might bring up consequences he was less than eager to meet, so he would rather avoid it if he could; but only if he could.

                Walking out of his way to make sure she was gone but alive, that Daud wouldn’t do. Corvo however, had gone fully out of his way to make sure Daud got to his witch hunt. This sort of effort, this was a fearsome factor. He couldn’t see it, but whatever flames and fires that burnt behind his eyes must be more intense than whatever the Master Assassin had ever witnessed. That was why he couldn’t believe he was doing this out of the joy of his heart and just some unspoken amount of money, no. Corvo was delivering this with passion and thoroughness, full of unknown intent. Maybe the Whalers were being lured in by it, this unpredictable mystery that burnt in silence.

                Daud certainly was. “We must have run in different leagues then.” He mused, reaching to get his cigarette back from the Witch’s fingers and having a drag of it. Sheer luck was not what kept them from meeting before; they certainly did things differently, talked with the different people, handed different deals and kept different trades. Corvo was from a whole other world he was not acquainted with, and here he thought that there was nothing on Dunwall that he hadn't heard of, or was even aware of the existence.

                He hoped that Corvo was an exception, for if every rumour of witchcraft had someone like him behind, then the world was definitely out of his control and he was but a small fish on a pond full of sharks. With the Witch's fingers playing and tracing the back of his neck, he looked up to hand his cigarette to him and get up for once. If neither he nor his men were actively going to chase Lizzy and know of her whereabouts, then maybe he should go see how his sword arm was faring. Certainly her help would come with a cost, even if she would not keep her end of the bargain at the end. He could handle paying for that cover.

                “We certainly have. Anything else?” The Witch said, crossing his arms as he looked at him and Daud found an unconscious sigh lingering to his lips.

                Did he like the thought of letting Corvo get out of his sight? No. Did he like the thought of trusting him with such matters? No. Did he like the thought of trusting his safety and the Whalers’? No. Did he like the thought of burying himself even more in debt with the Witch? No. There was nothing in this that he liked or was even remotely pleased by, except perhaps by seeing his men laugh and the lazy fingers that had been carding through his hair, only those things he could admit to himself that he actually enjoyed, and even so, that brought a bitter feeling to the top of his tongue. Admitting to himself didn’t mean he would ever actually voice it.

                “Yes. Don't bloody use my things, and leave my cigars alone. Take your flock, your murder, your unkindness, whatever it is, from my ceiling. Get your Void-damned coat from the fireplace grid.” He started, for he had a good full list of things to complain of, but halfway through it he was met with a half-hearted laughter and the Witch's back; he couldn't blame him, Daud was not the most interesting to hear complaining, even more that once he started, he tended to don't just stop, finding every little thing that got on the nerves of his methodical mind and pouring it out. One thing that also bothered him greatly was how Corvo didn't wait for him to finish before walking off.

                He would have to be dead so to don't act. His fingers lopped around his wrist, to tug and turn him back into his grasp. It was a move crafted to warfare, but liquid as if made by the nimbleness of a dancer. He was Serkonan after all, and they tended to be fluid in their movements like the curves of the countryside they were birthed. Daud believed thoroughly that he had worked this out of himself, and like his skin that paled to grey, he had adopted into his soul the stiffness of a Dunwaller. Sometimes however, it caught him off guard to see he could still be this swift and light on his manoeuvring of a Witch, whom spun on a heeled boot to be caught within his arms.

                Of a typical Serkonan handling and typical Serkonan smoothness. Serkonans, whom had to brush chests to argue and to greet one another, they shared three kisses to the cheek and warped their arms their victim so to stab them in their embrace. Such was the Serkonan way of delivering actions, in which love and war was perhaps too alike one thing and the other, and often confused itself. Serkonos with its street mafias were just this close and warmly embedded; a tangle of limbs and blades, family members and friends, allies and enemies, oaths and betrayal, screams and the shake of hands. It was a tangle of hot opposites in chaotic messes that only someone within could actually understand.

                Daud wasn't certain he understood it himself, most of the time. Maybe no one understood the way Serkonans did things, not even themselves. But alas, he didn't think wolves thought much about the ‘why’ before they howled; they just trusted instinct and delivered what was natural. And it was inborn and natural to catch the Witch on his grasp, his forearms feeling too thick around the other's lower back, but legs and stances matching too well, making it seem like indeed, it was on their blood to know at all times where to put their feet, battle or dance, one couldn’t tell, but they always knew how to keep one's body in sync with whatever situation. Feeling Corvo's surprised attention back to him and his breathing held against his lips, which transmitted to his instincts with flawless deliverance that he had achieved what he wanted.

                Whatever that objective was it, his mind rewarded itself. Whatever was it that got in his mind to pull the Witch so close had been achieved, as he felt Corvo rewardingly close, enough that his hands on his chest felt hot enough to burn through the clothing. “I wasn't bloody done.”

                Corvo caught it. What a Master Assassin didn't understand, a Witch seemed to catch from nothingness and push him to deliver it. He was but the clouds that warned a sailor of the weather, he was the navigator and signs that made plenty of what he did possible. The soft but strong, painted sails that made stiff, rough ships face the ruthless seas of the world. The perfumed, imported oil that kept a blade sharp before it was bathed in blood. He could find a million comparisons that described exactly how somethings complemented themselves, and walked close together just like this. Conflicting and yet working intensely but perfectly well. He wouldn't have gotten his far without Corvo, and the Witch wouldn't have a thing delivered without the Knife of Dunwall.

                When it came down to it, Witches and Master Assassins did work out well. It was all but Daud and Corvo to blame for their hitches of pace, as they were too hot blooded to keep it evened out; they either clashed or smoothed, flames of conflagration or burning-hot steam, never an in between, steadily boiling functionality. Too close or too distant, both situations were very dangerous. But as Corvo moved a hand to the back of his neck and tilted his head to meet Daud's lips with his, there was already a sense of familiarity to it. Conflagrations and steam surprised no more. The world spun and time would shape the world but they would always end at this, or in battle. For now, he was just glad it seemed he could choose which one.

                He was just full of resignation, apparently. They kept coming to this, even and after Daud told himself he wouldn't anymore, he didn't move out of his instinctual path at all. It was just so difficult to stop such things, to stop his mouth from returning the kiss and finding a close, strangely tender angle, in which keeping the Witch close was no burden at all; now there was no mourning on his heart, anger of self-loathing in mind, just the very clear fact Corvo bothered him in more ways than one. No rush or fight, merely a banter that got out of hand, for they always got things out of hand. It felt like together, in such partnership, the world could be fixed out of its chaotic nature, or they would unleash worse ailments that made the Void seem like a better ending than living in a world touched by them.

                To get well with Corvo rewarded him with a feeling of power; it reeked of a menace that the world could not handle. The Marked wrote history, and the two of them after the same goal would make of it whatever they wished. That was, of course, if they could keep themselves from bickering and fighting and tangling themselves with one another.

                This kiss was different from the ones of before; it had no argument it was avoiding, neither did it have the questions and answers yet to be delivered. There was no desire besides to feel the Witch’s lips and don’t let insubordination pass unnoticed; not that there was an actual hierarchy of command here, even if Daud liked to elude himself into thinking there was, just so his mind could cling to a fantasy of order.  There was nothing of it, however. Whenever Corvo’s lips hinted at a bit of pressure, a little bit of teeth so to bail out the Master Assassin’s worse, he couldn’t help but to fall to the bait and growl into his mouth in warning.

                For something so slow and, he dared to say, tender, it shouldn’t be so inquisitive, forever a chase and argument of unspoken desires and arguments; he wondered how they even managed to wish one another a good morning without it being screamed and followed by stones being thrown. From all things, despite being much better versed and warfare, he would rather solve matters like this, even if they didn’t sort anything to be precise.

                Corvo parted from the kiss, leaning back and escaping the Master Assassin’s kiss but not his grasp. To think, Daud had thought he had gathered enough willpower on his heart, enough resolve on his mind to just don’t give into this anymore, but by the Outsider, he was wrong. Those dark lips were still enthralling to chase and mistreat, and his hooded eyes held an addictive, undeniable thrill when they set on him. His loss of breath lied not, and the colour to his lower lip, marked by a couple punctures of the Assassin’s biting tendencies, it was all but easy to grow hooked to something he shouldn’t have.

                “I should be going.” He murmured, but his lips still ghosted against Daud’s and the Master Assassin let out a noncommittal sound in return. He was aware of it, yes, but not interested on just letting the Witch go just yet.

                He had enough of a balance and mind right now to know he shouldn’t have Corvo near, to admit he was a fool and this was a mess and an unnecessary risk that more than anyone else in the world, he should know better. He had enough sense to be able to easily know that, but also realising he craved something else, and it was far more interesting to work the Witch unto his bed and see what happened. He hadn’t craved anything of the sort for a long while, enough to think perhaps he grew out of it fully so to dedicate the entirety of his mind to his work.

                It was true, sure. Whenever Corvo wasn’t involved, and whenever the flavour of his witchcraft wasn’t on the air, close enough for him to just find and excuse to grasp him, to indulge on exploring every corner of his body and the way his abilities spiked up every corner that he bit and kissed and _worshipped._

He should be going indeed. He hated the Witch, didn’t trust him, was jealous of his men liking him and his storytelling, every part of his rationality was right for despising his existence. Never had he actively argued with his instincts for not behaving his mind, but Corvo brought up chaos like a deity of such, stirring it on his being like witchcraft indeed. Daud just couldn’t bring his mind to push away the creature that his instincts told to worship, and make an altar out of his bed.  

“Careful out there.” He mumbled instead, summoning an otherworldly amount of strength to take his limbs off from around the Witch, and to ward off the thoughts of wrongness and regret of his mind. This was not healthy, he knew, and that must be why he always did it again and again. It was wrong to handle issues in Gristol like he would at Serkonos, but he couldn’t help it that he was Serkonan. It was wrong to indulge on this every time his blood boiled; this was not an acceptable action.

                Feeling his lips brush against his one last time before the Witch stepped back, he couldn’t help but to frown as Corvo nodded. He could have given him a tease, could have laughed of that phrase that could have suited best his younger Whalers, not the Witch; it was more probable Daud would die climbing off his bed instead of Corvo dying out there by mortal hands, whom couldn’t ever harm him like equals. The Witch could have mocked him, but he didn’t.

                Instead, he nodded and offered him just the smallest quirks of his lips as he muttered. “Don’t stay up.”

                A rush of blue and light brightness came over him, and Corvo was gone with just the flavour of his magic on his lips, and a warm feeling on his arms, hands and wherever he had touched the Serkonan Witch. This was getting quite repetitive, to tell himself he wouldn’t kill but do it anyway, that he wouldn’t get Corvo within his grasp and kiss him and see himself almost stepping further, but instead stepping back. It was monotonous even to himself.

                One thing the Witch admittedly did to him was to spike the worst of his nature out. He fed up enough fire on him to set the city on fire, to make killing once more sound reasonable, to make him interesting again. Daud had no desire to be interesting for the Whale God in the Void anymore; neither could he see a point on indulging on more chaos than he should.

                But sure Corvo spoke up the tainted, dark desire to make things burn up and be swallowed by the Void.

                So this time he stopped himself before he promised his most reasonable side that he would stay off the Witch’s grasp. He knew he wouldn’t anyway. At the end of it, this sort of honesty with his own instincts was a desire he hadn’t indulged on nearly enough, neither did he know he needed it so much.

                Perhaps it was what he needed the most.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment. I hopefully will continue it to the end it deserves.  
> Critics are welcome, leave some if you can.  
> Stay tuned for another chapter.


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